R.H. Walker, Author

(Cover image by Priscilla Du Preez 🇨🇦 on Unsplash)

WOW. Hi y’all. Been a while, huh? As I alluded to when I posted The Belle of Red River Crossing, I have been M.I.A. because I’ve re-enrolled in school with the aim of finishing my B.A. in creative writing. I’ve had such a great time so far, and it’s also been a while since I updated the site, so I wanted to pop in to talk about how things have been going!

My college history is something of a long and sordid tale, but I think it’s important that I tell the story as often as I can, so I’m going to tell it again here. It takes time for college to click for a lot of people, and it’s very normal to complete your degree at your own pace, no matter what anybody else says. If you are a non-traditional student, you’re like me, which means you’re not alone.

BEKAH’S LONG AND SORDID COLLEGE HISTORY

So, I graduated from high school in 2014 (yes, that is 12 years ago. Yes, I turn 30 this year. No I’m not having any kind of feelings about that at all, why do you ask). I had a few ideas of what I wanted to do, and soon after starting, my mental health began to worsen. I started spending more time in bed or riding the local bus lines end to end instead of actually attending classes.

After that first year I decided I needed to be closer to my family and my friends, so I scraped together the few credits I’d managed to acquire and transferred to another school closer to home. I signed a lease, bought a car, and started worked full-time to pay my rent and my car loan in addition to attending school. It was good to be closer to my friends and my family, but both my grades and my mental health continued to decline. Finally, in the summer of 2016, I made the decision to drop out of school entirely.

I always knew I would go back to school, but it took time before I felt ready. After some deliberation, saving some money, a little bit of therapy, and some motivation from the TV show Community, I finally felt like I was in a good enough place to try again. So, in 2019, I made the decision to enroll in online courses at the local community college.

I stumbled at the beginning. I still wasn’t 100% with my mental health or my finances at this point, but unlike my first couple of attempts at school, I eventually got the hang of it. I actually learned how I learn, and how to best support myself.

And then . . . COVID hit. Joy of joys.

I am not the only person who had to do school during COVID. In fact I would say I was fairly lucky, because I was already doing a majority of my classes online, and so this did not represent a huge change for me. Still, it was not easy. Between the financial issues brought on by being temporarily furloughed by my job, as well as the isolation I experienced when all but one of my roommates went home before lockdown, it was not an easy experience. But I kept my head down, and by August of 2021, I was ready to graduate with my associate’s degree.

The summer I graduated was also the summer I also moved to Minnesota to live with my parents, a decision largely brought on by the financial and isolation issues previously mentioned. I was reticent to start school again, mostly because finishing my associate’s during the pandemic had felt like sprinting a marathon, but also because I needed to reevaluate what I wanted to do with my life. I had started a history degree with an eye towards archival work, but as time went on I found myself less intrigued with the field, and knew I’d likely want to study something else. I needed time to figure out what that something else was and get my financials in order. That took four years to happen, but hey, we got there eventually.

A lot happened in those four years. I started my podcast with my brother, and I started this blog and the By Writers For Writers project, all of which ultimately led me to the decision to pursue creative writing as something more than a time-consuming hobby. It was also really good for my mental health in general– I think getting a little space from my hometown was good for me, and but I also suspect my mental health just improved with time (getting older will do that). In short things stabilized for me, and I was left with the realization that, yeah, the only thing I really want to do in life is write.

When it came down to my decision to reapply to school, I knew I wanted to go back because I had something I wanted to learn, not just because I wanted to finally have my four-year degree (though, of course, that was still a factor). I finally knew enough about myself that I knew writing was in my life to stay, and I knew I needed time, resources, and connections if I was going to give it a real shot. Re-enrolling in a creative writing degree is my way of giving myself all of those things. It feels poetic that it’s happening ten years later, a full decade after I dropped out.

SO, WHAT DID I TAKE AWAY FROM THIS SEMESTER?

Let me just say first: it is so much more fun being in school now that I don’t have to do non-major classes. Don’t get me wrong, I understand the need for gen-ed courses, absolutely. But this semester I was enrolled in three upper-level English and Creative Writing courses where I basically just got to geek out about literature and poetry and prose for hours on end, and I had a blast.

Possibly my favorite takeaway is that I learned is that I can trust my instincts. While it’s been so nice to have a critique group and a professor to offer guidance, it’s also been majorly gratifying to learn that what I’ve learned on my own is not knowledge that will go to waste. Instead, I can build on it. I have names for techniques I had previously observed but had no additional context for, and can wield them with much more grace than I used to (time dilation, for example, and characterization through setting).

However, the most valuable thing I’ve received through my degree so far has just been time and obligation to write (which, I must admit, was one of the reasons I ultimately decided to pursue this degree). It’s been so nice to have a direction, to have someone else set realistic goals for me, to help to modulate my progress but also to stretch my capabilities. I’m finally getting some stability to my writing foundation, and it feels so good.

SOME TREATS FOR YOU

I’d like to include some writings from Visitations of a Prophet’s Wife, the project I started in class this semester, just as a little treat for you for making it this far.

Visitations is a story that takes us to a dying world, and its dying god. Our primary protagonist is Imna, the agnostic wife of the god’s final prophet, and her struggle to reconcile her husband’s best traits– his faithfulness, his devotion, and his moral compass– when those traits ultimately call him to serve his god, instead of remaining at home with her, even as the world continues to fall apart around them. When her husband’s god comes to her and tells her he’s gone missing, she must go off to save him, and decide if she wants him to forsake the best parts of himself to be a better husband, or let him sacrifice himself to a greater godo that will never appear.

This piece has been expanding beyond just a short story since the very beginning, and I’m hoping with some additional work to make it a nice novella-length piece, at the least, so it will stay on my docket for now. I hope you enjoy these snippets of it in the meantime.

(WARNING: These are much longer than I realized lol. How To Become A Prophet is about 3800 words, and Visitations of a Prophet’s Wife just crests 4000 words.)

HOW TO BECOME A PROPHET

This first piece is a “mimic” piece, meant to borrow the structure of the short story St. Lucy’s Home for Girls Raised by Wolves, by Karen Russell. Before this the prophet, Laren, had been more of a ghost in the narrative as I wrote, haunting it as both his wife and his god searched for him. But let’s be real, if Visitations was going to have any real meat, I’d have to explore his history much more in-depth. This structure, which is meant to show a character’s progression over five meta-narrative steps, seemed like the perfect opportunity to explore him.

#

He is not ready yet, no one is at first. That does not mean he will not be. Faith begins as a seed, and all seeds must be planted.

Laren is seven years old when he comes to his father in tears. Tevar has his own worries; he has made himself something of a pariah among his fellow priests, and he doesn’t quite know how. Just three years ago they would have stood with him in his views. Now he finds himself increasingly alone as he stands against this strange new paternalism. It is starting to wear on his soul, and when his child, his only family, knocks on his door with sobs in his throat, something in Tevar cracks.
He bends and picks the child up the way he used to, and Laren immediately clings, scrabbling for comfort that might only be found underneath his father’s skin. Tevar cradles the child to his chest, tucks his head under his chin, and tries to soothe.

“Hush, hush,” he says. “All is well, Laren. Be still.”

Laren, unable to speak for the emotion cottoning up his mouth, only shakes his head. His arms around Tevar’s neck tighten, threatening to choke, but Tevar is satisfied to wait. He would wait any length of time, travel to the far ends of the world, do almost anything to ensure Laren’s peace of mind.

“Please quit,” Laren finally chokes out. “You have to leave the priesthood.”

Well. Except for that.

Gently Tevar pulls back and tries to meet his son’s eyes. Laren, still tearful, keeps his gaze averted, like he is aware how much this question will cost his father.

“What happened?” Tevar asked. “Laren, did someone do something to you?”

“Not really. No. I just . . . Pema said something at the creche this morning.”

Pema is a child a year or so older than Laren. His father, Vhitar, is the leader of the paternalist faction, and one of Tevar’s biggest detractors. Tevar had worried that word of the growing schism would reach Laren in this way, but he’d hoped he had more time.

“What did he say?” he asks.

“A bunch of stupid nonsense! About how you’re turning against the church and the priesthood, and that things would be better for everyone if you d-died.” He hiccups. “He was laughing about it! He said his father would do it with his own knife if you didn’t ‘fall in line’ soon enough.”

Tevar feels Laren’s nauseousness towards the idea as though it were his own. It is true that things are growing worse, and he feels the possibility of Vhitar’s betrayal raising the hair on his arms, like the churn and roil of clouds before the lightning even starts.

“This isn’t the first time he’s said something like this, is it?”

Laren shakes his head.

They might just be the arrogant ramblings of a young child, but Tevar knows full well that when it comes to Vhitar, Pema’s words could mean something more. It is likely best that they leave. He knows where they can go to be safe, and Laren is still of an age where he will bounce back quickly from being uprooted from his home, none of that is the issue. The issue is that Tevar feels that he is the last bastion standing between the priesthood and a violent divorce from the church’s most basic doctrines. If he leaves, is he abandoning his responsibilities as a man of faith?

Calm pierces the haze, and Tevar’s mind stills. This is a feeling he knows well. His god is speaking to his mind and body, and it is saying that all will be well. That going north is the correct choice. That some other solution will make itself available and set the church to rights. It makes the choice easy.

The trip north takes weeks, but Laren’s young feet bear it well. He is lighter than Tevar has seen him in months, and it causes Tevar to wonder if other things were happening in the church creche that Laren did not tell him about. The thought makes his heart pang. His sweet, serious son, already so much older than he should be. He does not know how he will take the change, but when they arrive at the northern repository, he realizes he had no need to worry.

Velta comes out to meet them. She’s a quiet woman; Tevar knows others perceive her as taciturn, standoffish, but as she graciously accepts Laren’s introduction, delivered with all the seriousness his child’s body can muster, he knows that they’ll get along just fine.

“Come,” she whispers conspiratorially, taking the boy’s hand. “Let me show you what you will learn here while your father prepares your rooms.”

Tevar smiles as he follows Velta’s implied command, taking his and Laren’s packs into the small residential wing. There are few others here anymore, and only Velta stays year-round, so he claims two rooms. In the room that will be Laren’s, he removes the few belongings stowed at the bottom of his pack– a trio of carved animals, his favorite book, and a sketch of Gella. Tevar smiles, happy that of all the things Laren has chosen to take into his new life, the memory of his mother is still one. He carefully unfolds the sketch and affixes it to the wall with a wad of spruce gum.

Once he is done unpacking and making their beds, Tevar makes his way downstairs, where he finds Velta already engrossed in the process of teaching Laren the art of stone carving.

“You will practice on the small slabs first, likely for several years. We all do the same when we are first starting out. Only those who prove themselves to have a neat, steady hand are able to carve on the walls.”

“Why?” Laren asks, bounding across the room to get a better look. The chamber is lined with these man-sized slabs, each bearing a different account or teaching of their god.

Tevar chuckles, he cannot help it, and comes to stand beside Laren. “Because the word of the god is immutable,” he says. “These slabs will last for generations. We want them to look good, don’t we?”

Laren looks up at his father and nods earnestly, and the last bit of apprehension in Tevar’s chest loosens. Laren will do well here, perhaps better than Tevar did at his age, and they will be safe. Not only that, but Laren will learn of the god’s teachings free of the ideologies that so worry Tevar. That is, perhaps, the greatest gift of all.

#

His father has taught him well, but he needs to explore, to find some patch where he can plant this sprouting faith and watch it bloom.

Over the next twenty-two years, Tevar and Velta train Laren in the arts of record-keeping. They educate him not only in stone-carving, but in reviewing and compiling manuscripts to create the accounts that will go on the wall. They teach him to feel the god’s presence as he works, to let it lead his selections, to keep it with him always. There are so few visitors to the northern repository, but they teach him he need never feel alone.

Never does he need those teachings more acutely than when Tevar grows ill. A healer comes from a nearby village, but there is nothing they can do to help the wasting disease that has seized him. In a matter of months Tevar is gone, and then it is only Laren and Velta left.

Velta was not young when they first came and she is even older now, her fingers stiffened by decades of delicate work and chilly conditions. Even in the summer her joints have a tendency to swell, and all of the work falls onto Laren’s shoulders now. In the days and weeks after Tevar’s passing this suits him just fine; Velta notices that he seems to find comfort in the repetitive work. She comes down one morning, bearing tea to warm the young man’s hands and stomach, and she finds him hastily kicking a pile of blankets and furs beneath the central work table.

“Have you been sleeping down here?” she reprimands, craning her neck to meet Laren’s gaze. She is expecting to see bloodshot eyes, pallid and peaked skin, a back bent from hours of work on his current slab, where he is reaching the end and must sit on the floor to work. She was never a mother herself, but she has been a grandmother to Laren, and she is puffed up like a bird in her rage, ready to scold him. When she finally meets his eyes, however, she is surprised to find peace in his expression.

“Yes,” he admits readily. “I’m sorry. I . . . I suppose I don’t have any excuse.”

Velta purses her lips and, taking Laren’s hands in her own, guides him into a stool. She lowers into one of her own before patting those hands, once, twice.

“How are you faring?” she finally asks. “I know things have not been easy since Tevar’s passing.”

Laren nods, biting his lip. “I’m . . . I’m alright. I know I wasn’t for a while. The work has helped. You’ve helped.”

Velta tilts her head. There’s something he’s not saying. “That isn’t all, is it?”

He thinks about it. Shrugs. Thinks some more. “I remembered something last night.”

“What’s that, dear?”

Laren stands and crosses to one of the slabs; the repository’s record has grown exponentially since he graduated from the smaller tablets, and he has a keen memory for each one he’s worked on. The one he crosses to is one of Velta’s favorites, a centuries-old story of a merchant saved from an earth-rending quake by the grace of the god. The merchant lost his family in the incident; three separate accounts recall how the god appeared to the merchant to comfort him and teach him of life beyond life.

“Loss is never the end,” Laren explains softly. “The god is usually vague in describing exactly what comes after death, but it is always firm that something greater awaits us on the other side. It also always mentions that love, no matter how short-lived, is never wasted. That sometimes our loved ones must leave us behind to fulfill some greater purpose we cannot comprehend.”

Velta stands, and hobbles to him. She places a comforting hand on his back, rubbing the way she does when he is sick. “That’s right,” she tells him. “Wherever your father is now, I am certain he has found your mother. They must be watching you, wherever they are, and I know they are proud of you. I certainly am.”

Laren leans, trying to nestle his head on Velta’s shoulder the way he did when he was small. He is not a particularly tall man, but Velta was always short, and is becoming even more stooped as she ages, so the angle is awkward. He doesn’t seem to mind, which she is glad for. She reaches up and pats his dark head of curls.

“I think it’s time for me to return to the city,” he says quietly.

Velta smiles, even as a tear pools in the corner of her eye; she knows this has been coming. Even before Tevar’s death she had sensed a restlessness coming from the boy. Despite his quiet demeanor he is too vibrant to spend the rest of his days locked in a stone basement. He must go off, discover what else the god has in store for him. She knows, deep in her arthritic bones, that it is something great.

“I think so too,” she tells him.

#

Like a sturdy tree, his faith appears tall and strong, but it must still be tested. What good will it be if one good breeze knocks it down?

“I’m not saying that.”

Pema feels his eye twitch, even though it is still closed. This is the third time the woman has interrupted the ceremony, and he has six more weddings to get through today. With a heavy sigh he opens his eyes, and beholds the couple with a glare.

“Do you want to be married or not?” he asks.

The man, apparently a priest himself, though the robes he wears are out of fashion, presses his lips in a thin white line. Pema can sympathize, but only to a point. At least he is not the one shackling himself to the shrew.

“Not if those are the promises I have to make,” the shrew responds.

The man reaches out and places a hand on her shoulder. “She’s right,” he says. “None of these things you are asking her to vow are doctrinally sound. The god does not demand the subjugation of women as a tenet of salvation. In fact, it speaks explicitly against it multiple times. These lines should not be included in the ceremony at all.”

“All rites have been approved by the quorum,” Pema drones. “Any deviations will nullify the ceremony. Do you wish to proceed?”

The man bites his bottom lip. The woman watches him expectantly, her brow pinched in worry.

“What do you think?” he finally asks, leading them a few steps back from the altar. They speak softly, trying for privacy. That does not prevent Pema from hearing every word, not that he truly cares about their decision.

“I’m not going to make those promises, Laren. I know you wouldn’t hurt me, but I would be a fool to even put myself in the position where you have that much power over me. If you try to compel me into this–”

“Stars, no! Imna, of course not. I would never.” Laren’s hand pushes up through his hair, coming to rest at the back of his skull. “I’m sorry. I promise I wasn’t trying to trick or coerce you. I didn’t even realize they’d changed the ceremony.”

“I know,” she murmurs. Her shoulders ease down an inch. Then, after a moment, “why do we have to get married at all? Things are good as they are now, aren’t they? Why can’t we just carry on?”

Laren sighs. “I don’t know, it just . . . It felt important.”

Imna’s face softens. “I understand. It’s your faith. This is important to you.”

“Yes.”

Imna blows out an exasperated breath. “I want to do this for you,” she says eventually, “but my safety and freedom are things I will not compromise on.”

Laren reaches down and takes her hands in his. “I would never ask you to,” he promises again. Then, a realization blossoms across his brow. “I might have an idea. It will take some travel, but I know a place. Someone who could . . .”

Laren casts a glance back at Pema. The officiating priest cannot be less bothered about their argument, but he is still listening. Something about Laren intrigues him. The name sounds vaguely familiar, and his easy willingness to listen to his bride-to-be over the teachings of the quorum could spell trouble. Pema’s father, the chief priest, will want to know.

“Come,” Laren tells Imna, and arm-in-arm they scurry from the adjudicant’s hall. Pema lets them go. The quorum will know how to deal with dissenters, if they dare to return.

#

He is ready now. The flowers of his faith will bear incredible fruit.

The god watches from afar as Laren and Imna stumble from the alehouse; the god has been watching carefully since Laren was a child, but even more so since his wedding. Five years ago now, the god is pretty sure. Time is such a fleeting commodity to immortals, but even the god feels the end stalking ever closer. Laren impressed the god at the failed wedding. He’d been among only a handful of priests willing to stand up to the quorum back then. Now? The god has waited too long to agitate for real action. Laren is the only true believer left.

The god waits through the night. Laren and Imna stumble home, make drunken love like they were wedded five days ago, not five years, then fall together into a dead sleep. Laren wakes early in the morning to be sick into a chamber pot, and when he stumbles outside to empty it into the compost pile, the god makes its move.

“Laren, my child,” it intones. It lets its divine glow swirl atop its skin, following all the old conventions so he will recognize it right away. To the god’s great gratification he does, immediately falling to his knees in a pose of worship.

“My– my god, you honor me with your presence,” he stammers.

“I wish I came to you with better tidings,” the god says, and though it has been a long time since it has felt acute emotion, it realizes it isn’t lying. It truly regrets what it must do to Laren in order to save the world.

“What would you have me do?” Laren asks. The words bubble forth from him like a hot spring, as though he has been waiting all his life to say them.

“The priesthood, and by extension the church, are entirely lost to me,” the god says. “My influence over them has been fading for years, I know you have noticed.”

Laren nods eagerly. “I have been trying, my god. I have preached your teachings, your true teachings, at every opportunity. I have–”

“Be still, child. You have done well. That is not why I am here.”

Laren’s brow wrinkles in confusion, but he does not speak, perhaps sensing the god has more to say.

“The priests are planning something dangerous,” the god tells him. “You have heard their plans for the eternal flame, to be built in the temple complex? That bonfire is not the only one they want to build. They want one in every major city they control, and they are willing to go to any extremes to keep them burning. In a few years, the forests will be all but gone. The smoke from the fires will choke the sky. Not long after that, the rivers and the lakes will dry up. The world as you know it will change, and not long after that, it will begin to die.”

Laren’s jaw drops in horror, and satisfied that he feels the gravity of the situation, the god presses on.

“The priests will not listen to reason. The only way they will be stopped now is if they are forced to stop. That is where you come in.”

“Me?” Laren says, and his breathless panic makes his voice squeak. “What can I do?”

“What you are best at,” the god promises. “Speaking the truth. Teaching others of my word. Only this time you must do it in direct opposition of the church. You will be cast out from the priesthood, ostracized. You will preach on street corners, no longer in beautiful chapels, and you will likely be arrested, beaten, chased from town to town. It will not be easy, Laren, but you are the only person I can entrust this task to.”

Laren makes several failed attempts at swallowing. “And that will work?” he finally croaks. “Rallying the commonfolk will force the priests’ hands?”

The god cannot tell him that it does not know if it will work. The god can see all futures at all times, and in so many of them Laren is struck by a stone during his first sermon and is immediately killed. In others, Laren manages to rally enough of the people to amass a scrappy rebel force, only for them all to perish at the hands of the mercenary force paid by the priests. A thousand other scenarios are possible, and in only a few of them does this plan work.

It is the only plan that will work at all, though, so the god simply nods. “Yes,” it tells him.

Laren bows his head again. “Then I am yours to direct, my god.”

#

He is ripe, his fruit ready to harvest.

Imna awakens to a cold bed.

Laren was supposed to return over two weeks ago. It is admittedly not the first time he’s been late back. Last time, the priests’ mercenaries cut down a rope bridge along his route, forcing him to trek four extra days to round the canyon. She hopes it is something similar this time, that the violence has not escalated.

She misses him so fiercely that she fears it might rip her apart.

On habit she reaches across to his bedside table and brushes her fingers against the yellowed parchment there. Two leaves, two sketches. One, the older, is of Laren’s mother Gella. At least, that is what Laren says he has been told. She died young, and Laren never got to meet her, but his father Tevar made the sketch so his son would always have a small piece of her. The second is of Tevar himself, done by Laren as a teenager. The sketch is good for a young artist, though some of the proportions are odd if you know to look for them. These are Laren’s most prized possessions, the only parts of their old life he dared to bring with them when they fled the city.

Imna thinks back over the versions of Laren she’s known. When they first met he was timid, a little awkward, but with an earnest demeanor that had charmed her. She’d later learned why; he’d been raised in a scriptural repository far to the north, brought up not among other children but among books and stone tablets. It had taken some coaxing on her part, but she’d eventually brought out a more playful side of him, and eventually a romantic side too. No matter how many new dimensions he gained, however, he always maintained that genuine nature, completely honest in every thing he did and said. It’s why she fell in love with him.

It is also the device of her slow, torturous death.

Laren had not been lying when he said his god had come to him in a vision and told him to preach rebellion against the priesthood. Imna was not even sure she believed in the god, but she could not deny the sudden fire in him. Almost overnight her shy, sweet husband became an animated public speaker, eagerly stopping to talk to anyone who would entertain his ideas of rebellion. She had considered asking him to stop many times; didn’t she know better than anyone how dangerous the church and its teachings could be? But Laren was the best man she knew, and he saw something worth having faith in, to the point of sacrificing his own social standing and even safety, and how could she deny him the opportunity to live honestly when that was what he was best at?

This version of Laren, the passionate prophet, was the truest version of him. She just hoped he knew what he’d left behind to become him.

VISITATIONS OF A PROPHET’S WIFE

These three scenes make up the final short story assignment for this class, and though I love them, it’s far from being a true representation of the final story. There’s so much more to explore in Imna’s daily life under the priests’ regime, in the betrayal of the god towards the end, and Imna and Laren’s life both before and after his disappearance. Still, I think this is a good little microcosm of what we’ve learned about them so far, and I’m proud of the craft and the hours that I put into this. I hope you enjoy!

#

Someday soon Imna will find her husband beaten and bloody in a barrow, his hands and feet lashed together in a terrible knot at his back, wheezing as he fades in and out of his dreams. She will pull him from his would-be grave of stone and soil and tend his wounds, and when he is fully conscious again she will beg him to vanish into the wilderness with her, to abandon his martyr’s mission and come home to her.

For now, she walks to the far side of the city to make her purchases. This partial anonymity is one of the reasons she stayed in the first place; yes, even after her friends had vanished, even after Laren was driven out of town, and even after the priests started having her followed, she stayed. In a small town she would have no options. At least in a city her money is still good, even if she has to walk an hour to spend it.

When she is done she cuts through the ashy streets to another neighborhood, intent on a small inn nestled among the tenements. She climbs the rickety exterior stairs to the roof, where sits a small hutch of roosting pigeons. She checks the bolt hole; the third bird has not returned. At this Imna tries to ignore the twisting in her gut; she generally tries to regard no news as good news, but the longer the weeks stretch without another missive the longer she begins to fear what has happened to him. There are not many places left in this world where the priesthood’s influence does not stretch. The question is whether Laren will realize he’s fighting a losing war before he actually loses.

She finally reaches home as the sun disappears behind the dead trees, the red of the sky deepening into a bloody maroon twilight. By the waning light Imna unlocks her door, and as she turns to maneuver her bags inside her eyes catch movement a couple alleys down. Another priest-apprentice, no doubt, here to spy in case Laren reappears. What a pain. With a weary sigh she shuts the door, secures the latch, and wedges her brick doorstop beneath the lip for good measure. Satisfied with her handiwork, she turns to the small cupboard and begins unloading what she purchased.

Imna turns, ready to see what else needs doing when an explosion of light floods her home. She flinches backwards, stumbling as her knees meet the low frame of her bed, and as she sinks onto the edge of the mattress she cannot tear her eyes away from the figure before her, glowing with glory.

“Know me, Imna, wife of Laren,” it intones, and its voice seems to shake the very earth. “I am the god of this world, the steward of its peoples, wielder of the elements and—“

The golden aura flickers. The stranger— the god, if it is to be believed— winces, and doubles over. Then, unceremoniously, the light goes out, and the god slumps to the packed earth floor.

Imna stays still for several breaths, trying to talk herself out of what she’s seen. She is an atheist in all but name, but she has always referred to herself as an agnostic. She promised herself long ago that she would never doubt the testimony of her own eyes, and what an account they have just given.

The prophet’s wife stands on shaking legs and moves, one, two, three steps forward, until she stands over the god. It is unconscious, its breathing shallow and rasping. She wonders what to do with it. As she stands there thinking it whimpers, moans at some pain found only in its dream, and her baser instincts take over. When it comes down to it, Imna will always rely on her principles. She does not even make the choice. She just bends, hooks her arms under the god’s shoulders, and drags it towards her bed. It’s lighter than she expects, on the verge of emaciation. She hauls it onto the bed easily and covers it over with a blanket. Then, she crosses the small room and sinks onto her good stool.

With her head in her hands Imna takes a quiet moment to try and sort her feelings. The god that has sent Laren on his impossible mission is, apparently, real. She supposes this should comfort her, for at least her husband has not abandoned her to chase some terrible hallucination. Her second thought is a flash of pure, terrible jealousy. It takes her somewhat off guard; she has never begrudged Laren his faith, just as he has never begrudged her lack of it. It only shows how difficult these past weeks have been without him.

The god stirs. She crosses to the basin and fills a cup with water, then drags the stool over to sit by the bed. Once the god has opened its eyes, blinking back to awareness, she helps it sit up, holds the cup to its lips.

It does not thank her, not that she expects it to. It cannot seem to look at her either, as though it is embarrassed that it needs help from her. This does not surprise her either, somehow. After all, why would a god ask for help?

“Imna, wife of Laren,” it says again, though this time the speech is uneven, slurred in some parts, roughly chopped in others. “I am the god of this world, the steward of its peoples, wielder of its elements, and I am dying.”

You don’t say, Imna thinks.

At her impassive expression the god reaches out, its fingers sparking with the same evidence of its godly light. Imna pushes the hand away. “Don’t,” she warns, and the god acquiesces.

“So. Am I being called to join your helpless cause? Because I must warn you, I would make a terrible prophet.”

The god startles her by laughing. The sound is a weak, hacking thing. “No, nothing like that. I will not insult either of us by pretending that would be a good idea.”

“Why are you here then?”

The god falls quiet.

“Laren has not prayed in three days,” it says eventually, still not looking at her. Imna’s breath catches in her throat. “He is not dead, I don’t think,” the god continues. “But I cannot sense him well enough to go to him. My powers are . . . Fading. My life is tied to the wellbeing of the planet and, well.” It gestures to the door, to the ash-choked city, and the dying wasteland beyond.

“So your first thought was to come here,” Imna says, and her splintering voice cracks into a jagged laugh. “Did you think he would be here? The first city he was driven from? I have opinions about my husband’s foolishness but he isn’t that stupid.”

“No,” the god says quietly. “You surmised one thing correctly. I came here for you.”

“Me.”

“You.”

“Why? Surely you don’t expect me to replace him.” What a thought, thinks the agnostic prophet’s wife. She would be a farce.

“No. As I said, I will not insult your intelligence by asking, prophet’s wife,” the god scoffs. After a moment of deliberation it finally says, “Has Laren been communicating with you? Sending letters? Anything that might . . .”

It trails off again, and suddenly Imna understands. It needs her help to find Laren.

A thousand thoughts of unfairness flood her. Laren has dedicated his life to the creature in front of her and left her to weather life in the hostile city without him. Now he is gone, and the thing that took him from her has not even had the decency to have kept track of him.

“Why should I tell you?”

The god blinks, seemingly baffled. “Are you not his wife?”

“Are you not his god?” she parrots back. “I would expect you to keep track of your only prophet a little more closely. Is this how you reward the faithful? Because if so, I must say, I don’t think I’ve been missing out on much.”

The god grinds its teeth as it looks at her, then away, then back again.

“I am dying,” it repeats. “I used to have more tools at my disposal to care for my prophets, for their flocks, but now—”

“Then what use are you to him? To me?”

“Do you want him to stay lost? Because that is what will happen if you withhold what you know.”

“Maybe I’ll go after him myself,” she tells the god.

“He would not want that. He spoke of you and his desire to keep you safe often.”

She scoffs. “Yes, yes, I know all about being protected. Your priests have used protection as an excuse to limit us for years, as though women are not our own creatures with our own minds, just as human as they and with as much capacity for basic cognition.”

“They are not my priests any longer—”

“And besides,” Imna continues, cutting it off, “it is not as if it is much safer here, not anymore. The priests grow bolder by the day. They follow me, did you know? They are like you. They think I have some critical clue to where he’s been hiding, some secret code or wifely intuition, well, the joke’s on you. All of you.”

A laugh rumbles out of her, low and dark as an angry storm cloud, and as much in her control. “I have no idea where he is,” she chokes, after several long, painful moments. “Would that I did.”

“Why did you not go with him in the first place?” the god asks.

“He asked me not to.” Her reason really is that simple. She’s been unable to deny Laren much of anything throughout their years together, not even this. It’s why she stays in the city, play-acting at normal life with the rest of them, even as she watches the world crumble. Oh, how she misses him. Oh, how she loves him.

The god watches her for a long moment.

“I am sorry,” it murmurs. “Laren is special to you. He is to me, as well. It is a privilege, to be loved by someone like him.”

Imna looks up, and sees a note of deception in the god’s face. It’s trying to hide something, but what could it possibly . . .

“You love him too,” she realizes suddenly.

The god runs its tongue over its teeth, a painfully human gesture from a creature that claims divinity, and its lack of refute proves to her that she is right. If it loves Laren even a fraction of the way she does, it is more of a friend than she has in all the city, likely in all the rest of the world. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to let it look.

“Where was he, last you knew?” she asks.

The god sniffs, and one side of its brow raises, carefully appraising her. “Zaphen City,” he says. A mountainous city, far to the north. “He was staying in a cave nearby. I checked it, but I saw no sign of where he might have gone.”

Imna sighs, then bends to reach under the bed. From a tiny hole in the straw-stuffed mattress she produces the two letters Laren has sent so far, two pigeons returned of three.

“These are all I have,” she says. “In the most recent one he indicates his arrival at Zaphen, but I do not think he’d moved to the cave yet. He was staying with old friends of ours at first. You might check with them, if they are not dead already. Perhaps they will know something.”

The god accepts the letters without another word. It nods to her, an acknowledgment that she had not expected, then in a much-weakened shower of light, it leaves.

Imna is left alone to worry, and to plan.

#

Imna has dreamed of Laren every night since he left. Sometimes the dreams are salacious: his hot breath on her neck, the gentle brush of his palms circling lower, the twitch of his skin and muscle beneath her feather-light touch. Since the apparent god’s visit, however, they’ve shifted. Now she dreams of being held, only held, of feeling the weight of his arms around her shoulders as they doze. It is as though her body has finally realized the terror and grief of Laren’s inevitable loss.

It drives her to distraction as she walks. She sees him in every twisted tree and stray pebble along the roadside. They walked this road often, back in the day, and all she can see now is how things have changed. No more verdant foliage, no more rushing of the river just through the trees, no more birdsong. It also shocks her to see just how few people are sharing the road— once, it had overflowed with merriment. Now, she and her fellow travelers don’t dare to look one another in the eyes, and they all wear blades on their belts.

She resets her pack, trying to give her shoulders some brief relief from the cutting straps, and she wonders again if she made a hasty decision. It hadn’t even been a day when she’d buckled to the urge to follow the god to Zaphen City. But, she argues, it came to her for help, loath as it had been to admit such a thing. If Laren is truly in danger, (which, she has to admit, there’s little chance he’s not), she has the best chance of finding him. So now she is here, walking and missing him and straining her ear for any sound of water.

She closes her eyes and, not realizing what she does, she thinks Please, let him be alright. A moment later she bumps into someone. She jerks back to herself, opens her mouth to apologize, only for the words to die on her tongue when she realizes who— or rather, what— she’s bumped into.

The god inclines its head sardonically. “You called, wife of Laren?”

“No,” is her immediate response, but then she thinks about it, and realizes that she’s accidentally made the first prayer of her lifetime. “Not on purpose,” she amends, “but it’s just as well that you’re here.”

“And why is that?”

If the situation wasn’t so dire, she would swear the god is amused. “Did you find Laren?”

It huffs an impatient breath. “Not yet. I am still pursuing avenues of—“

“Great, then we have a place to start.”

“We?”

“We,” she confirms.

It peers at her closely. She refuses to meet its eyes.

“Why?” it finally asks.

Imna puffs out a breath as she thinks, trying to frame her thoughts in a way that will make sense to the god.

“What good is faith?”

“To me?”

“To anyone. I assume you take some kind of benefit from it, otherwise you wouldn’t ask it of your followers, but what of them? What do they receive in return?

She expects the god to come out with some scriptural platitude, but it remains quiet for a long while, seeming to ponder its answer.

“I cannot be sure,” it finally says. “I am an object of faith, thus I have never needed to practice it myself. However, in millennia of experience being the god of this world, I can say that there is little that gives people as much hope as faith.”

Imna snorts. “A lot of good hope will do for them right now.”

The god considers her carefully. “Do you not have hope, Imna, wife of Laren?”

“Just look at you,” she says, gesturing at the god, to the blasted wasteland around them. “Just look at all this. You claim to be the god of this world. You claim that your power comes from the earth. And here you are, both on the verge of death. If you go, you’re taking us all with you. So tell me, what good is there in hope right now?”

“Do you not believe in an afterlife, then? Some reward for living well when you die?”

“Don’t you?” she shoots back. “You seem very afraid of death for someone who believes in an afterlife.”

They fall into silence. Imna clears her throat.

“Are you afraid to die?”

“Yes.”

Imna nods. It is finally dealing honestly with her, it seems.

“I have never had much cause for faith,” she admits. “I am not concerned with what comes next because I cannot know it until I am there, and I glean my hope from other sources. Laren . . .”

She trails off, and for the first time she feels relief at the god’s natural reticence. It gives her space to organize her thoughts.

“Laren has always seen the good. He knows how to dredge it out of people and their terrible situations. It’s one of the reasons I love him, he can make you see it, too. That’s how we met, when we were young and idealistic. I saw the bad, he saw the good, and we were both ready to make the world better.”

The natural pause in her thoughts is interrupted by a screaming yowl, and a jungle cat comes bounding at them from the trees. The god scurries backward, yelping in alarm. Imna barely breaks her focus as she pulls her blade from her belt and cuts the creature down in one smooth movement. She feels the god’s wide-eyed apprehension on her back as she cleans the blade on the underside of her apron. She doesn’t break her stride.

“The church was the only thing we disagreed on,” she continues. “To me, faith is a convenient excuse, a shield to hide behind when you are accused of wrong-doing. I mean, just look at what your priests have built.”

“They’re not mine,” the god mutters.

“No? They have an easy time invoking your name, your doctrines, and your scripture.”

The god glares at her. “This is one thing humans have always misunderstood about divinity. You are beings of agency, Imna. In this regard I am as powerless to stop the priests as you are.”

“But it is you they invoke. Surely you can decry them?”

“What do you think your husband is for, prophet’s wife?” The god shakes its head.

“As I said, you are creatures of agency. You will believe what you want to believe in the end, no matter what I say or do. No matter how many prophets I take from their wives.”

“Then why demand it at all?!” Imna casts her arms wide, as though the answer can be found somewhere in the blood-red sky. “Why ask Laren to risk his life for this pointless crusade? Why—?”

Her voice cracks, and she has to look away as she resists angry tears. When she dares to look back she finds that the god has paused on the trail, its gaze trained on the cat’s cooling body once more. Each one of the cat’s bones is visible beneath its brindled fur.

“It is as you said, prophet’s wife,” it says. “I am afraid to die, and your husband’s faith is the last strand of hope I have left in this world.”

It does not apologize. It does not need to, because it is a god, but also because if there is one thing in the world Laren believes in aside from his god, it is his wife. Imna knows firsthand how powerful that faith can be. She knows the god can’t answer for that any more than she can.

She nods. “Then you have your answer, for that is why I chose to join you. We have the best chance of finding him together. He deserves at least that much from us.”

They keep walking.

#

Do you wish to know the rest? Imna and the god travel together for a time; the god finds it harder to appear and reappear with each passing day and finds walking more tolerable, even though Imna sets a punishing pace. When they reach Zaphen City they have to be careful and discreet, but eventually their inquiries lead them to a burial ground in a nearby valley. Imna unearths her husband and together she and the god drag his limp form to their camp, and when he finally wakes the god leaves them to have a moment to themselves. When it returns, they discuss what comes next.

Shall I tell you of the god’s betrayal? Imna expects resistance when she tells the god that she is taking Laren away, that they will find some place to bide their time before the world ends. The god agrees, but as they travel it takes Laren aside and explains what it now requires of him: if Laren is willing, he can sacrifice his body to become the god’s new vessel. This will grant the god renewed strength, and with that strength it will be able to cleanse the world, to purge the evil the priests have wrought, and begin again.

Laren tells Imna. Did you think he would not? For all his other faults, he is a man who loves his wife, and he wants to make the decision with her. He has also been shaken by his time as prophet, by the ostricizations and the beatings and the attempted burial, and perhaps he is looking for an excuse.

Imna is appalled. They leave the god behind, but as they flee they encounter another cabal of the priests and their hired mercenaries, who have tracked them ceaselessly through the northern mountains.

The final visitation of the prophet’s wife occurs in a dank cell in a small, nameless village. Laren, still exhausted from his ordeal, slumbers. Imna sits beside him, alternately carding her fingers through his hair and staring at the small crack of sky she can see from the cell’s window. The door opens and the god, found not long after they, is thrown in with them.

Imna and the god stare at each other for a time, but ultimately they have nothing to say to each other. They are too similar. Neither will apologize, and they both know it, so there is little point in saying more.

When the priests have them taken into the caldera the next day they all sit silently through the false pomp and ceremony. The god refuses the priests’ demands to declaim itself a demon. Laren refuses to apologize for his preachings. Even Imna defends the god, much to its shock.

It is this, in the end, that makes the difference. The god does not let the priests take its life in the way they want to, the way that would grant them the power to shape the world even more than they already do. It does not sacrifice Laren, does not take his body as its own to cleanse the world of its sinners. Instead it looks at Imna, a question in its gaze. She firms her jaw and does not look away.

The god closes its eyes and allows itself one more moment of life, everything it shoved away for its more practical concerns. It allows itself to feel the blistering heat of the magma below, the sweat beading along its brow, the hunger gnawing at its gut, and every bit of rapturous, torturous love it feels for humanity, and the aching loneliness of not receiving that love in return. It holds its connection with Laren, that single tenuous thread of faith that remains, and with a terrible finality, it frees him.

The god allows itself to fall into the caldera on its own terms. As the heat unravels the remains of its power, it uses its last moment of consciousness to thrust those threads towards Imna and Laren.

The god will never know whether Imna and Laren accept it. If they do not, the world will die as surely as the god has, and perhaps that is well enough. All things must end eventually. The god can only hope it has paved the way, and that it has given them enough love to want to build something grand and new.

Whatever their decision, Imna and Laren will surely be better gods.

IN CONCLUSION?

Thanks so much for sticking around! As we continue into additional semester my posts will likely remain erratic, but I hope to always come back with something worthwhile to share. I’m so grateful to have you along on this writing journey with me.