God's Demon - Barlowe, Wayne - God's Demon

He withdrew his hand from the cleft and he stared at the small, precious object for a moment, remembering how he had come by it. He and the work-gang had been walking up the congested Avenue of Fiery Tears, trying to stay together as they marched through the shuffling crowds. She had been walking toward him, alone, clad in unusually pale and hairless traveling skins, and, as he walked toward her, they had made eye contact. This had not been broken, even when she intentionally bumped into him, placing the object in his hand. His first reaction had been shock, followed nearly immediately by fear. He looked furtively around, making sure that no one had seen the transfer.

Hani walked on for some distance without daring to look at what was in his clenched hand. When he finally had a moment to study it he had sworn under his breath. It was beautiful in every way: an exquisitely carved bone statue of a voluptuous woman with clawed feet. The finely chiseled features, the perfect, polished breasts, and even the tiny scales on its feet were depicted with incredible attention. But who was it? And why did he now possess it?

Those questions were only heightened by the onset of strange waking visions—he thought of them as the mysteries—that began to wisp through his mind while he labored. They started as brief image-skeins of her bone-white face, beautiful and placid in repose, the slightest hint of a smile traced upon her lips. These momentary glimpses had blossomed into longer day-visions, dangerous in their distracting duration. Hani saw, through a miasma, the woman he had named the White Mistress, seated in a strange, vast room, flanked by two fierce eyeless creatures and surrounded by countless kneeling souls. Where was she and what were those beasts? And all those souls, why were they prostrating themselves before her? And why was he merely standing amidst them, not kneeling as they were? He wanted to kneel; the ineffable adoration he felt for her was nearly overwhelming. But something kept him from genuflecting, from giving himself over to her completely. That disturbed him so he had taken to secretly moistening his fingertips with his tears and rubbing them into the figurine, his silent libation.

And there was something else about the visions that he could not explain, something beyond their obvious message of hopefulness. After he experienced them he felt inexplicably ... self-assured. He wondered if it was possible to have a more inappropriate emotion in Hell. All of these gnawing emotions he traced directly to the acquisition of the tiny figure. After so many centuries of mind-numbing sameness, the new feelings excited him.

That had been weeks ago, and the visions had, if anything, grown in potency. Now, squatting in the ash storm, figurine in hand, Hani wondered if he was doing the right thing bringing the others into his private world. They were an intolerant, self-absorbed group, steeped in their own miseries, and the chance that they would try to curry some small favor from the Overseer by revealing Hani's secret was high. And yet there seemed some purpose to showing them.

Div was looking at him. "Well?"

He handed the figurine over to the soul.

Div took it in his rough, spatulate fingers, rolling it, examining it. He looked up at Hani and back at the statuette.

"You're telling me that this is what gave you your visions—this thing?"

"Yes, they started when I got it." Hani was already defensive.

Div's face looked blank for a moment. He shuddered and then pushed the object back at Hani.

"It has power; I saw ... something. A woman ... a white woman for just a second."

"It's her," said Hani, "the White Mistress! She is out there somewhere; I know it." And then he took the next step, the step he was not sure that he should take. "I think ... I think we are meant to worship her."

Div looked away, obviously thinking. A cargo barge, only half-filled with stone, caught his attention as it slid slowly up the Acheron. Sargatanas' large, fiery sigil hung low over the square bow, and surrounding it, obeying a time-worn invocation, shifting navigational glyphs steered the craft.

By now, La and Chaw had edged in to hear the exchange.

La reached out and Div, first looking to Hani for permission, handed the figurine to her. She looked at it with disdain, weighing it in her twisted hand, and then passed it right to Chaw. The obese soul smiled lasciviously when he saw it, rubbing his finger over its breasts stupidly. Hani had expected that.

"Where did you get that?" La said stiffly. She thought of herself as the workers' leader, but Hani suspected he knew how the others regarded her.

"It was given to me."

"More likely you found it. Probably belonged to one of them," she said, nodding in the Overseer's direction. "It will have us all turned to brick if they find it on you. Get rid of it!"

"No, La, I won't," Hani said evenly. "No one's found it yet and no one will. Unless one of you tell them. And, as you said, we all know the repercussions of that."

The small group was staring at him.

"Tell La and Chaw what you told me," Div said seriously.

Hani hesitated. There was ash in his mouth and he took the moment to spit it out. The others took it as a sign of disrespect.

"I've been seeing her," he said, pointing at the figure, "in my mind. Ever since I was given it, these visions have been growing clearer, stronger. I don't know who she is but I think that she has given that little idol the ability to speak for her. And I think she wants me—us—to pray to her."

Hani could not believe what he had just said.

La snatched the figurine away from Chaw's gross attentions and flung it to the ground. It disappeared into the ash.

"Souls are not meant to own anything!" La spat. "Except their pain!"

Hani rose, shaking with rage. "Pick it up!"

"Turn to brick!"

He struck her sharply, and though she was larger and more powerful than him, she reeled and fell, sending up a dense cloud of ash. She rose again, eyes blazing, but Hani was ready for her. He was about to strike her again when he saw the Overseer rise and turn toward them, whip in hand. Hani sat down quickly trying to conceal his anger. The demon flicked his whip ominously and approached, trying, Hani thought, to analyze the situation.

"Get up! Work again!" the demon barked in their language, and the souls slowly scrabbled to their feet. The storm was abating and Hani, still in a rage, looked down at the ground frantically. He could not leave the little idol; it was all he had. Everything. When the demon prodded them forward Hani lifted his gaze and focused on the back of La's head. He would never forgive her. He would find a way to have her turned.

As they marched back toward the work area, Div sidled up and cautiously held his hand out, and, to Hani's utter relief, he saw the little white figure in the soul's calloused palm.

"It was in the ash right by my feet," he said, looking oddly at Hani. "Take it, but I wondered if I could borrow it sometime soon. I will give it back; I swear."

Hani sensed the sincerity and urgency from Div. And something else that might have been respect. The idol was working on him as well, just as Hani guessed it was supposed to. He looked at Div and smiled.

"Keep it for now. Tell me what you see, later. But tell no one else. Something must be taken care of before we can talk of this again."

"Be careful of her, Hani," the soul said, jerking his head toward La.

Hani picked up the sinew rope; his hands were only partially healed, but he felt strong, even confident. As he and the others strained to tug the reluctant block up the causeway, Hani's eyes narrowed as he studied and gauged the heavy female.

It had not been hard, after all, Hani thought, to deal with La. He had been right to assume that most of them would either help to remove her or stay back. Hani found that stepping into the role of leader, even while she was present, was somehow natural. He had waited a week for the right moment, and when it came he had found that his strongest ally came, not surprisingly, in the form of Div. It was easy, with his help, to maneuver her into a position so that she could be crushed by a huge block. She had been so badly flattened that, with little thought, the demons unceremoniously added her to the pile of bricks that the workers drew upon. Hani, himself, helped haul her to the pile, tossing her high atop the stack, a grim smile upon his lips. As the work progressed, whenever Hani passed her, he could feel the hatred emanating from her. Once, when no one could see him, he even spat on her and watched his spittle sizzle off from the heat. La glared angrily back at him but could do little more than blink. It was, he thought, good practice for when she would be a brick.