Goddess Rising

“Best meat pies in Yopidasi.”

It was a lie, of course. The sign appeared older than her. On the building behind it, peeling paint had made way for the mud climbing from the red, clayey ground. It was charming in an earthy, low-class way, but Aria expected that its cuisine matched its decor.

That was no problem. She had two months of hunger to satisfy. Whatever food this tavern sold, if it made it down her throat without poisoning her, would be adequate.

A hundred bodies stood between her and her food, each one dressed in defiance of the summer heat. Her black coat was at home in the sea of long-sleeved blouses and dirt-dragging skirts. Their disdain for the weather foreshadowed their disdain for people. The five hundred feet to the eating-house required Aria to push past every single person on the street who - whether standing or walking - blatantly refused to make way for a passerby. It was with thanks that she finally pushed through the door and angrily slammed it behind her. Misbegotten thanks, because the interior was just as hot as the streets.

The room was surprisingly rowdy. Men sat on long benches, elbows on equally long tables, their sleeves rolled up while they ate with their hands from shared bowls. Despite the sign’s proclamation, there were no meat pies in sight. The men dipped yams in a delectable-smelling soup, then ate the yams and half of their fingers.

“Bring more!” Someone screamed, and a woman with more acne than a teenager rushed over to refill the bowl.

“I saw it with my own eyes. It rose a thousand feet in the sky.”

The speaker was a bald man with a thick face. He had a bone in his mouth which he noisily sucked at between sentences. The other patrons were clearly waiting on his words. Even those still eating had one ear turned to him.

“Every person in the city gathered to watch. Never in my life will I see such a sight again. They made him stand there, first, not tied up, just standing. Then, they read a proclamation - I won’t repeat it. I don’t want to die.

“Anyway, they read it, and then two of them picked him up, turned him over, and (pam!) stuck him on a spear. Then they flew - flew - high up and tied the spear to the pole. Then they posted the proclamation on the pole and left. The blood ran all the way down the pole if you’ll believe it.”

“Liar!” All eyes turned to a man on the other side of the room. “Gods don’t bleed.”

“Idiot, I told you I saw it. Ask anyone who was in Iruomida.”

A hush came over the room. After a few noisy pulls on his bone, the man resumed speaking. “I’ll tell you this too, he was brave. No twitching, screaming, pleading. Ai, you’d really believe he was the god of war. He didn’t look defiant, though - more bored. But you could tell it hurt.”

“So, he’s still alive?” This speaker was a woman, the only one in the crowd. Her eyes shone with horror and fascination.

“Of course. Do gods die so easily? Anyway, I took my wife and left right after that. I wasn’t even on the road before I heard that the soldiers were taking people. Anybody who shared the story, anybody who looked like he might share the story, even some people who did nothing. On the road up till we left Garo’s territory, they would just stop people and if you didn’t convincingly say that Garo is invincible, they would take you.” He took a sip of water. “I don’t know when it will die down.”

No one spoke after that. Clearly, they were pondering this tale of a lifetime: the god of war bleeding publicly above his largest temple.

Aria walked between the tables and stopped before a dusty bench. There, a man sat astride, counting money and recording the figures in a shabby book.

“Three meat pies, please.”

As the words came out, she sensed a wrongness. The whole room had gone eerily quiet. She spun around, to find the other patrons frozen in their seats, eyes wide and mouths ajar. They were blinking, so they were not frozen. They simply looked as if they had seen a goddess.

Movement returned all at once. Every person dropped to their knees. Some knocked over bowls as they went and made no attempt to correct the mess.

“You honor me, Holy One.” It came out as a squeak. The speaker, the same man who had been counting his money, was now on his knees. His face was pressed into the dirt floor; His legs were shaking.

Aria did some staring of her own. She pressed her fingers to her face. It felt the same, though that meant nothing. A quick turn confirmed that no other person was standing beside her. She was the object of their confusion.

“Please, Your Greatness.” The man quivered. “Tell me how I may serve. My wife makes the meat pies. They are not fit for a goddess, but I would be honored to serve them to you. We also have Ikiri. It is new, tapped this morning, and spiced with blackweed.”

She did not reply. It was the coat, she decided. It had given her the aura of a goddess. But how would she correct them? What would she say? ‘Oh, no, I’m not a goddess. I borrowed this from the son of the Black God. We met after his father imprisoned me for attempted murder.’

She had to say something, though or the man would empty his bladder. Her servant’s uniform was her sole remaining possession. It would not do to have it smell like urine.

“I’ll have the three meat pies,” she said, “and the ikiri.”

She had never tried it. By the time the fragrant wine completed the journey to her village, it was twenty times as expensive and not shared with children.

The man was on his feet faster than a lightning flash. He bent almost in half as he indicated a door across the room. “Please, follow me, Your Greatness. We have privacy and servants.”

The privacy was his own bedroom, and the servants were his wife and daughters. They washed Aria’s feet, drew a bath - though she declined it - and combed her hair. She had not had someone to tend her hair since she’d left her tiny village temple for Garo’s palace in the middle realm. In preparation for the feast, she had washed it and arranged it in one large braid running in spirals along her crown. Garo’s servants did not need to look fashionably.

Now, the two girls - the oldest no more than fifteen - doused it in their most expensive (and still cheap-smelling oil) while offering praise about how wonderful it was. She almost died of embarrassment. She would have accused them of mocking her, but she could hear their terror.

They fed her meat pies until she ordered them to stop and then stood around in wide-eyed worry. It was comical and guilt-inducing. She wanted to leave, but she was exhausted and sleepy after the meal.

“Your service is adequate.” She tried to speak as a goddess would, and she might have failed. But how did one end such a deception? “I will reward you. For now, let me be.”

They flew from the room. Once alone, Aria considered escape but there was no window. Leaving meant walking through the eating house again, and she had no destination anyway. Instead, she lay on the deflated grass mattress, in a room only large enough to hold four sleeping bodies, and fell asleep in minutes.