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The realization startled, almost shocked her. It was a new thought. A new thought, me? All her old thoughts seemed as thin and ragged as a piece of knitting made and ripped out and made and ripped out again until all the threads were frayed, growing ever more worn, but never larger.
Anyone who desires to see the gods face-to-face is a great fool, thought Ista. Although that was not an impediment, in her experience. “You don’t have to pray to do that,” said the divine. “You just have to die. It’s not hard.” He rubbed his second chin. “In fact, it’s unavoidable.”
Gray and ochre stone, rough or dressed, formed both walls and buildings, here and there enlivened with plaster dyed pink or pale green, or with painted wooden doors or shutters, rich red or blue or green in the angled light of the late-spring afternoon. One might drink this light like wine and grow intoxicated on color, Ista thought, as their horses clopped down the narrow streets.
The sun shone down high and hot; the shadows were black accent marks at her feet.
“The last time I tried to follow the gods’ holy addled inadequate instructions, I was betrayed into murder,” she raged. “But for You, I wouldn’t need redemption. I don’t want to be part of You. If I thought I could pray for oblivion, I would; to be smudged, blotted out, erased, like the sundered ghosts, who die to death indeed, and so escape the world’s woe. What can the gods give me?”
Ista swallowed, or tried to. And prayed, Ista-fashion: or made a prayer of rage, as some claimed to do of song or the work of their hands. So long as it was from the heart, the divines promised, the gods would hear. Ista’s heart boiled over.
The god may be absent, but I am still present. Maybe this is a task for dense matter, to do what matter does best: persist.
SHE SEEMED TO COME TO THE DOOR OF HERSELF, AND LOOK through.
We are all of us, every one, our own works; we present our souls to our Patrons at the ends of our lives as an artisan presents the works of his hands.”
the gods did not desire flawless souls, but great ones. I think that very darkness is where the greatness grows from, as flowers from the soil. I am not sure, in fact, if greatness can bloom without it.
