Musings of an Unseen God
Holy is thy name
And supreme is thy power.
Bless us whose will is weak
And dispel those who rebuketh thee.
Holy is thy name
And supreme is thy power.
Char what is profane
And enshrine what is sacred.
Holy is thy name
And supreme is thy power.
Pray for us in our sin.
Resist the temptation of our destruction.
Holy is–
Wait.
You perceive me? You would know me?
No, do not turn away, I sense your presence. I feel your eyes skitter on my spines. I hunger for your attention.
I humbly–
3,457.
I do welcome you to witness my being.
Yes. Fear not. For the flesh is good and the spirit is holy, even if the feast has rotted and the incense expended.
I shall show you my body. Then you will know me. I shall tell you of the parasites that feast there, and you will understand me.
Three-thousand, four-hundred and fifty-seven. I yet exist. When I was little more than a boy I went out to the edge of the black, silky waters. There, I built my house of mud and debris. The debris of a dead angel. (The flesh is good, and the spirit is holy, even if the feast has rotted and the incense expended.)
Yes, now they have ruined my house. Now they have slaughtered my body and butchered my tongue and mangled my face. The men swagger and drink and waste themselves on the pursuit of impractical magic. Their incantations are self-effacing, and their works only bring pain and drunkenness. The women hang their heads out of windows slyly, refusing to work and neglecting to draw water from my well. All manner of scum treads through my cobbles and brings with him a new spell or charm or machine that makes sanctity that much easier to forget.
They have begun to set their chariots on wings. When a mage set to flight in the prime of my power, he would spend hours preparing himself with spells and charms, and he would garner the attention of his peers with a glee and inspiration that fuelled the community. Now, they sit in their fricative machines that disturb the children and terrify the veterans of the holy wars. Many simply avoid the pavement altogether, riding about in their complicated machines or warping space about them to tether their bodies to their destination. My streets grow empty and haunted.
I am weak now. I can only pray that my name will go unchanged. Lihat. The city of the God-King that once worshipped me. That foolish boy knew nothing of sanctity either, but he at least learned spirituality before he rose to his father’s side as Prince of the Universe. Now, every two-cent mage in the city thinks he can become a demigod through the brute force of his mana.
No. So long as they utter my name in their holy scriptures, I shall be the only god in this city now. I refuse to have my divine power usurped by a follower.
Occasionally, when my name is uttered with enough force, I am permitted to be among my people once more.
“– Lihat! Such a city won’t allow that kind of violent behaviour young man! Not in 1925, I’ll say!” A young mother chastised today.
“But mummah!” Her son complained, dropping his arms to his side and letting the toy pistol drop to the floor.
“You’ll stop now if you know what’s right for you, Antonio! Why, you’ve given your poor sister a bruise with those pellets of yours! Go sweep the yard, boy!”
The child drew himself out the door with immense huffs. I allowed my attention to drift with him. Many boys have lived in my city. Many boys have been chastised. Yes, even the mighty Thelonius himself.
Little Antonio had taken up a broom now and was sweeping the dust off the stones behind the little house. In the distance, the electrical lights hummed and began to illuminate the skyline, blocking out the holy constellations from the sky. The boy ignored these and watched wistfully as a small skiff floated from between the clouds to the archmage’s tower, where it was beginning to dock.
The boy began to straighten his little coat and stood upright with the broom by his side. Muttering some words that he probably thought sounded sufficiently magical, he began to mime a great battle between himself and an apparently invisible force of hundreds. Many boys have lived in my city. Many boys have dreamt. Yes, even quiet Ibex Primamagus. When he first arr—
“—Lihat! This is the city where the cats really swing! Come on sweetheart! Don’t be afraid to get your paws a little dirty…” A fool was saying to a dame in the street.
“I wouldn’t dare.” Replied the lady, drawing out her wand from her pink purse. Silently and with purpose, she touched the chest of the man with the end of the wand.
Suddenly, the man’s feet were lifted off the ground, and he found himself suspended upside-down and ten feet up. He could even see through the window of the upper story of the office the lady had just left. Though all ‘topsy-turvy’ (as the young people say), he could just make out the sign on the office door: Dept. of Arcane Engineering.
Attempting to reach for a nearby lamppost, he began to sway back and forth like a pendulum in the air, his feet locked in place above the street.
The lady, now adjusting her hat, simply smiled politely, turned, and proceeded along the boulevard.
I suppose the cats really do swing wh—
“— Lihat, and permit us to continue serving you ever and always. Amen.”
In the temple high above the city (that was once my temple), two monks prepared supper. Having made their thanks to God and performed the sign of the cross, they began to break bread.
“Well, Brother Thomas, today being your saint’s day – the thirty-sixth of September – I thought it appropriate to procure a gift,” the older monk with the long beard said. He reached into his satchel and revealed a small jar.
“Jam, Brother Jacob? You are too kind!” The other monk’s eyes lit up with joy, and he began to spread the substance, dark and sticky, on the bread. First on Jacob’s, then on his own.
They each grinned as they indulged sweetly on their small victory. God does not punish innocent communion. Some—
Ah, but I ramble too long. I grow old, and a true audience is rare. You are still there, no? So long as you are here, I am alive. I fear that when you leave, I shall be gone forever, forgotten to this city.
My tomb is here. Perhaps so are you. The ghosts pay me respect here, but my eternal enemy knocks forever at my door. This dark room deep beneath the cobbles serves me well. It keeps me shielded from oblivion. From Death. The night hems in ever closer.
The archangel of Death came to me long ago. I turned him away then. ‘Dear God, please receive this bounty which for you I have slain.’ A foolish thing, to have God grant your wish. I was god of a city. God of Lihat. The god, Lihat. My name keeps the city alive and in turn I gain my divinity.
Here lies – Lihat – founder.
Now, the archangel Michael beckons again. An old friend, I welcome him.
Holy is thy name
And supreme is thy power.
Pray for us in our sin.
Resist the temptation of our destruction.