Robert Hughes - The Prophet of Lamath

“You’re causing us to…” Several peasants in a hamlet three-quarters of a mile away were exchanging pleasantries when they heard a loud fluttering, a sound like canvas being torn by the wind, and felt a slight concussion as something big made a heavy impact on the earth. All shielded their eyes against the sun and looked toward the southwest. It seemed a cloud of dust was rising from that quarter.

“Came from over by the monastery,” one peasant observed.

“Lot of strange goings—on at that monastery this year,” another drawled. Though all were curious, no one said anything more about it. It wasn’t smart to get too involved in this religion business. Especially not lately.

“…crash!” Heinox finally finished his sentence with a growl, tasting the dust caked around his teeth. Vicia reeled a bit, but he had not taken the blow as hard as his companion. While Heinox had warned, Vicia had positioned himself to absorb the shock. Heinox’ forehead had made a most convenient cushion. Vicia chuckled as Heinox wobbled up out of the dirt.

“It’s fortunate we landed in a plowed field,” Vicia said. “If we’d hit a patch of rocks we could have been skinned up rather badly.” He was in complete authority over the workings of their body, and felt quite proud of himself. Heinox was understandably cross.

“What’s this?” Heinox snarled.

Across the furrowed field came a line of figures, all wrapped in robes of sapphire blue. They came slowly, stepping from one crumbling ridge to the next. Vicia-Heinox was rather pleased, at first. The dragon was unaccustomed to this kind of reception from humans when he went foraging abroad for food. But as the group picked its way closer, Heinox grew anxious.

“What are they doing?” he said. “Can’t they see I’m a dragon?” Vicia did not reply. It was indeed puzzling.

The column of blue-clad men and women formed a semicircle before the dragon, and the leader, who appeared to be either a very young man or else a woman, stepped forward to speak.

“We offer ourselves to you. Lord, and count it an honor that you would choose us!” The voice quavered, but the words flowed smoothly. Had the dragon been more acquainted with such things, he would have realized the speech was rehearsed. The robes hid all but the faces of the small group, and these were all chalky white. Fear Vicia-Heinox could understand. It was these words that didn’t make sense.

“What are you offering yourselves for?” Vicia asked curiously.

“He speaks,” several cultists murmured in awe, and the leader turned to hush them.

“Please excuse the disbelief of my brothers and sisters,” said the speaker. It was now clear that she was a woman. Her voice trembled as she bravely answered the dragon’s question. “We offer ourselves for any purpose the Lord commands.”

“What lord?” Heinox asked, rising up and over the gathered group and swiveling around to look at these strange people from behind.

“Why does the Lord ask who he is—” a young man whispered, but the leader quickly cut him off, her impatience heightened by her own terror.

“He’s testing us, don’t you see? The heart of the creed, together now, recite!” The entire group fell to its knees in unison, and all struck the same pose. Both hands were formed into the shape of the letter C, as a child would when making shadow animals in the candlelight. Both arms were raised above the head and then crossed, hands opening outward. Heinox looked ,at Vicia inquiringly.

“What are they doing?” With a hint of a dragon smile, Vicia replied quietly, “I think they are doing an imitation of us!”

“I believe in the Dragon,” they all began together. “May he preserve us. May he hold the stars and earth together in tension. May he hold good and evil together in tension. May he hold my interests and his interests together in tension, until such a time as I shall pass over or be chosen. May the Dragon live forever. So be it.” The rhythm was unnatural. The words had been repeated so many times throughout the centuries that they had really lost their meaning.

Heinox snorted, and a number of the quaking monastics twisted around to squint up at him. Never in any imaginative vision of their god had they pictured just how large and pointed his teeth really were. Though the dragon’s size had been greatly exaggerated down through the ages, the paintings and statues of him never captured this feeling of threatening immediacy. This was no terra-cotta figure, this was a real live dragon! Not only did his teeth glisten and his eyes flash, but he had remarkably bad breath. Could anyone blame the two cultists who fainted into the furrow? “You believe in the dragon, do you?” Heinox snarled. His Jaw was aching where he had slammed into the dirt, and he seized this opportunity to ventilate his frustration.

“Oh, yes, yes, we do!” a dozen devotees cried out as they turned, still on their knees, to face him.

“I say, that’s rather rude, to turn your backs on your own god,” Vicia said huffily, and now the entire group swiveled back around to face him, still kneeling.

“One moment, please!” said Heinox. “I also happen to be a part of this dragon, and I deserve an equal share of the attention!” The cultists were in a quandary. They huddled together for a moment, and the leader turned to address the dragon once again, doing her best to make eye contact with both heads at once.

“Lord, do you think it might be possible for both of your heads to stay on one side? I mean, it is very difficult for us and we’re getting our robes all dirty—”

“What sort of priestess are you, anyway?” Heinox teased, angling down into the girl’s face. “First you say you offer yourself to me, then you try to tell me what to do!” The girl was petrified. She stared for a moment into those great, faceted eyes, and gave the only response she knew to give.

“I believe in the Dragon, may he preserve us, may he hold—” She was back in the crossed-arm posture, eyes shut, quoting the remembered scripture as loudly and earnestly as she could. The others quickly joined her.

Heinox pulled away, and glided back across the heads of the feverishly muttering monastics to counsel together with Vicia. “My jaw hurts.”

“Mine does, too,” Vicia replied.

“How could it, you didn’t hit yours!” Heinox groused.

“No, but you were clumsy enough to hit yours, and your jaw is my jaw too, remember?”

“But it doesn’t hurt you as much as it hurts me!”

“Would you stop worrying about our jaw? I’m trying to listen.”

“Listen to what?”

“To what my worshippers are saying about me.” Heinox stared hard at Vicia, then snorted. “I knew it.”

“Knew what?”

“I knew as soon as these curious humans started calling us a god that it would go straight to your head.”

“Why not be a god?”

Vicia asked, preening there shared body proudly. “Who else in the world would qualify?”

“Oh no,” Heinox groaned, and he laid himself backward into the dirt. “Not this. Anything but this.”

“Tell me,” Vicia began loudly, and the chattering was silenced. All eyes were fixed on him. Vicia arched his neck vainly and asked, “How long have you been worshipping me?” The question seemed simple enough to Vicia, but the monastics appeared thunderstruck, and there were several minutes of serious theological debate before an acceptable answer was formulated.

“We have been faithful before you!” the leader replied piously.

“That hardly answers my question,” Vicia sniffed, touching off another debate that went on even longer than the first.

The community historian won this one, and now he spoke up, his voice cracking nervously. “We have been faithful to the true belief for over three hundred years, Lord! This order has stood firm on the issue of your coherence, and has staunchly denied any Divisionist heresies!” The little speaker scrambled backward after his speech, hiding himself in the group.