All the Names They Used for God

by Anjali Sachdeva

They are just so many stories patched together, so many forgotten days encased in bone and meat. One might unearth almost anything with enough searching.

“It is so. You’re too young to know. Learn to smile in the daytime and write your heresies by candlelight, or you’ll live to regret it.”

A boy who cares more for the freedom to direct his own gaze than for the master’s anger is a rare creature indeed.

There was even a time, decades ago now, when he began to write the poem, but it withered in his hands like a plucked flower. And so he learned to leave it alone, to let it grow in silence, until the silence consumed it, until the words fell asleep again beneath his skin. Now he wonders whether he will ever find them. —

She stops, draws a sharp breath. Her words shift within her like nervous birds. They long to go winging, and one loud noise will send the whole flock exploding outward, past the paltry gate of her tongue, into the world from whence they cannot be reclaimed. Her silence is all that stands between her and disobedience, and whatever punishment that entails.

“Do you believe that still? That those who rule must give way if they are not just?” Even she can hear the febrile edge that has crept into her voice, but John does not seem alarmed. For the first time, he looks at her as though he understands her. “I do still believe it,” he says. “How glorious to be an angel, and know you serve the only truly just ruler to be found in all of creation.” The angel presses her lips together until they blanch, nods tersely, and looks away. “Hosanna,” she says.