Story - I

There was once a so-called prophet. He declared many things, some of which might’ve been truths, and some of which might’ve been lies. But the validity of his words didn’t matter as much as his ability to make people believe.

Many in this world look for a faith to cling to—a reason to believe in the unknown. The man found people like that and, making use of their desperation, convinced them of his foresight. Those people came to follow him and take every one of his utterances as gospel. He was the word of a higher being to them, so they willingly submitted.

And thus, a cult was born.

The man formulated a belief system for his followers, with a large focus on purity and isolation. He urged them to gather and relocate to a secluded sanctuary, away from society and its tainted values. And that is exactly what they did. The most pious of the believers left behind their lives of conformity, seeking refuge with their peers from a world of those who did not have the same faith.

These people had now become fully isolated. They were free to practice their sacred rites in solitude. They devised rituals and doctrines, and researched subjects that would have otherwise been strictly forbidden. All of this was done in order to carry out what they believed to be the purpose of their existence.

Their supposed purpose—the belief that the cult’s entire spiritual framework was based upon—was quite simple:

It was to worship and conjure the Devil as a means of salvation.

And thus, I was born.

***

“Come. It’s time.”

I heard those words every single day, in the same tone, from the same adult. He would walk into the room where I studied with my preceptor and gently take my hand. Without saying goodbye, I’d leave, silently walking to the sanctum with the adult who had come for me.

As we made our way there, I caught sight of the fellow believers, dressed in all-black robes with solemn looks on their faces. They parted for me to come through and go to the altar at the front of the room.

“Welcome, our vessel.”

The door closed, and the room dimmed, leaving just a few candles flickering in the dark.

Indeed. I was made to be a vessel for the Devil. A stark change from what you’re probably used to in this story, but it’s the truth.

That was my purpose—to mold myself into a perfect receptacle for the Devil to be summoned into.

I was supposedly conceived for that one reason, and that was why I was the only child in the abandoned village that the cultists had settled in. To be frank, I didn’t hate the life I was given. The essence of my existence had been laid out for me, and although I was a child, I didn’t expect more from life than what I’d already seen there in the village.

I was well-nourished, regularly cleansed of impurities, and given a comprehensive education. Ash was rubbed across my shoulders as “sanctification.” It was like I was a valuable artifact. They treated me with great care because I was something sacred to them, my body being what would house the object of their worship.

You could say that I was a special child. A truly, truly blessed child.

The final ritual was to be held when I became twelve. I was taught the importance of my role in the process of summoning the Devil, so I didn’t dread the thought of that day inching closer and closer. Sacrificing myself for his coming, I would be the first to reach salvation. I rather looked forward to it.

I would fulfill my purpose.

My life would end then and there.

I thought about it a lot. I remember looking out of that cracked window, simply thinking…

“Hello, Midas.”

A certain woman would often sneak into my chamber, for no other reason but to talk. I found it strange, especially since she was the only one who did this.

“Hi, Romka.”

That was her name. Romka.

She would sit on one specific place on my bed, angled in a way that allowed both of us to see out of the same cracked window. There would typically only be long silences, but we would sometimes have deep conversations. It was rare, but it happened.

I thought she was really beautiful. There was an air about her…something that just made her feel warm and welcoming. Then again, that might’ve just been because she was the only woman I ever really talked to.

“...What are you thinking about?”

Romka asked it softly, as if the answer mattered to her. She was looking at me instead of out the window.

“Nothing important,” I said.

She rested her head against the wall beside her.

“Did you know,” she said, “moths can’t tell the difference between the moon and a porch light?”

I glanced at her.

“They use the moon to navigate, but sometimes mistake artificial light for it.”

“...Really?”

“Yeah.” She faintly smiled. “It’s strange, right? They think they’ve flown all the way up into outer space…but in reality, they’re just stupidly circling around a lamp. Over and over. That’s how blind they are.”

I looked back out of the cracked window, at the night sky leaking through.

“They still believe…don’t they?”

“Hm?”

“If they believe the lamp is the moon, isn’t that enough?”

Romka turned her head slowly, following my gaze.

“...I don’t know, Midas. Do you think it’s okay for them to call the lamp their moon?”

I looked even higher.

“They can’t tell the difference, so how could it be wrong?”

She shuddered for a moment. I glanced at her, a little surprised.

“Are you cold?” I asked.

She didn’t answer right away, and just straightened the sleeves of her dress.

“A bit,” she said. “It’s a chilly night. You should stay warm, too. Nobody would be happy if you got sick.”

“I will.”

I expected her to get up and say goodbye, but she didn’t. We were back to silently staring out of the window.

It’s so far away…

I could see the moon from where I was sitting. It was no larger than a coin.

With how unreachable it was, I couldn’t blame moths for settling on lamps and street lights. Even if they didn’t know any better.

I looked over at Romka, who was gazing into the night sky, just as I was a few seconds ago. I wondered what she was thinking about.

She was the only one who ever really called me by my name. It sounded nice when she said it, almost as if it was meant to be used only by her.

If she hadn’t used it, no one would have. Perhaps it wouldn’t have meant anything.

I felt the urge to smile, and turned my gaze back to the cracked window. I don’t remember if we said anything else after that. We might have just sat there in silence, holding on to any thoughts drifting by.

A clear mind felt quite nice, but what awaited in the near future still lingered in the back of mine.

It was strange, realizing how young I still was.

There were only some weeks before the final ritual would commence.