the Misspent god
I died on the third floor of the library, facing
west—wonderful, oceanic west, with the sea sparkling as I had forgotten that it
could. Shall I tell you how I came to
such a place of death? It comes to mind
that the beginning would be a good place to start, although I am far more
intrigued by the ending of things than their beginnings. Where I now reside has no beginning and no
end. But, I do think that you may need a beginning. However, the middle of things tends to be
much more dramatic than the beginning or the end—ah, I diverge as I am prone to
do.
The beginning was full of my unthrottled cries and my
mother’s heavy and newly unburdened sleep.
The midwives, I was told repeatedly, were nearly as exhausted as my
mother. So, few words were spoken as they
cleaned my flailing body. “This one will
be great in the midst,” said one midwife to the other. A wink and a nod were the only other two
parts of the weary conversation.
Bound, but this time in coarse cloth and not my mother’s
fleshy belly, I fought as Prometheus to loose myself from the woven fetters.
Soon, through much writhing and wrestling, I freed myself with such zeal that
the golden cradle that held me tipped to one side and I rolled free of
its clutches. Having rolled several times, I then lay beneath a large, rustic
table obscured by shadow and hidden from any searching eye. You may find it
incredible that I neither cried out nor suffered any pangs of hunger and that I
recall this event in its entirety. I was born a god, remember everything and
have suffered much from both.
For seventeen cycles of the sun I lay there silently beneath
the table. I remember feet the better part of that time. The feet of the nurse-maids,
filthy and rough, the boots of the guards, stolid and polished, the loose and
scuffed shoes of the conscripts searching for me, and the boots of my father.
These were great boots with bronze scales reflecting any light by day or night.
The leather soles were as thick as my leg and the straps were as wide as my
hand. The ground shook as he walked and all souls quaked at his entrance.
I believe this was the first time I hated him. I could hear
the trembling in their voices as he questioned and accused. And I comprehended
his power that could bend the heavens and the earth to his will. In my infancy, in my
beginning, I vowed that I would not wield that power. And thus my journey
began—a journey of diminishment. It was a journey solely designed to dismantle
the power of my father’s voice. I am Oldenveldort and this is my tale.
Copyright M.R. Hyde 2013
