The God Contusion

Large rays of light passed through the window blinds of Zulema’s room. It was a small space, located on the 3rd floor of a four-story building. The apartment itself was located in a small square off the main road which connected to the larger town square where the looming statue of Macha was located. If one were to look out the window to where the statue was standing, their gaze would only meet with its torso. Not too far from there was the church where Zula spent the other half of her life. For a regular person, living in this district would cost a fortune not affordable to many. But for an employee of the Scarlet Church, certain benefits allowed a mid-ranking priestess to live a comfortably fiscal life in that same area.

Alma had just woken up, her face covered in sweat after suffering from another nightmare she was already forgetting. She had slept in her sister’s bed that night after another short chat with Zula and agreeing to look after the newest stray she had decided to take in that month. Walking into the small living room, Alma noticed Hwalín still sleeping soundly on the couch, passed out after having raided her sister’s alcohol cabinet. The Hecatian's tall frame proved a bit too much for the accommodating furniture and as a result, had caused her feet to hang off the arm of the couch.

Qu’l-Nia—who had been sitting across from the slumbering red elf—had her face buried inside one of Zulema’s religious texts. She greeted Alma without removing her gaze from the page she was reading.

"So, this is the way of life your sister has chosen for herself,” remarked Qu’l-Nia. “I discovered piles of these books on a shelf stacked all across the wall. She seems very practiced for one so young."

"She is. Zula's pretty fantastic. Always soaked up the religious stuff my grandhag used to impart on us. And me… well I was always more interested in the other stuff she'd tell us about." Alma, who had slept in her sister’s pajamas, had already crossed into the kitchen and was beginning to serve herself some cereal. "Kinda surprised though. I'd have thought our measly little religions below you."

"On the contrary, Alma. Religion is the very first thing you childlings develop in order to understand your purpose in the world. It is the cornerstone that elevates the universe around yourselves and reminds you that you are not alone. From something as complex as the design of creation to an essential guide for everyday living. And at the core of these doctrines, there is almost always a higher power—a demiurge—hard at work behind the scenes making it all possible. Gods that you believe ask for worship, as if you are predisposed to be a slave the moment you are created. And because of that, smaller beings intrinsically look to larger beings as their role models. Like children to their parents. The more pitiful something is, the more it will search for someone to guide it. Such is the hierarchy of the world. Who is to say an insect does not see you as its God? The creator of its world?”

Alma was listening intently while munching away on the dry, sugarless cereal that only her sister seemed to enjoy. Alma had begun to notice that Qu'l-Nia's fascination seemed to delve deepest whenever it concerned the weirdest things.

“Your Gods are not infallible," she continued, finger raised. "They are not exempt from impunity simply because of who they are or who you wish them to be. They are living beings like you and Hwalín—”

“And you?” interrupted Alma.

“Yes.” There was zero change in Qu’l-Nia’s expression. “Even me.”

The small gatin made small purring sounds as it slept on the floor near Hwalín. The perfectly symmetrical lines of fur cutting deep along its face bristled beautifully as it breathed.

“Even this small creature right here doubtless sees you as a godfigure of sorts. From something completely ordinary as simply feeding it the previous night. An incredibly alluring creature, I might add. He reminds me very much of a cat I once had…” She trailed off into mumbling words, continuing the speech for only herself.

Alma noticed a wistfulness in Qu'l-Nia's eyes that she thought her incapable of.

“You’re saying the role of a god is just something we hoist upon them? What about the creators? The protectors?”

“They’re just doing their job.” Qu’l-Nia smiled.

“I am curious though, Alma,” she continued. Her tone of voice had changed. “I found no such indication or acknowledgement of an afterlife in these scriptures. Are the eschatologies yet unwritten?”

"Ah… Well, it's not an afterlife per se. But the Scarlet Church tells us something along the lines that once our physical selves die, you wait patiently inside your corpse until one of Macha’s handmaidens, either D’rrota if you’re good or D'mona if you’re bad, comes to find you. Good souls get rewarded with something they call integration, I think? D’rrota whisks your soul away to the realm of Cockaigne to meet with Macha, where she consumes you and your minds become one. She learns from your experiences, though I’m not exactly sure why. While the bad get stripped of all sense and reason by D’mona and are then tethered back to their dead body where their soul rots along with their carcass until there’s nothing left. Yeah, I don’t know, my sister would be able to explain it better than I can. She told me most of this stuff. I get chills just remembering it.”

"Yikes, Alma." Hwalín spoke from her supine position on the couch. She had woken up at some point during the conversation. "Your bloody religion is all kinds of fucked up. You know, we have a trickster god in my religion that sounds almost exactly like your Macha. A parasite from the stars that's supposed to be the root of all mental diseases in the world. It tries to integrate into your mind and in the process jumbles it up."

"Fascinating," said Qu'l-Nia. She seemed genuinely interested in learning more. "And your race, Hwalín, they also believe in a life after death?"

"Aye," responded Hwalín, sitting up. She guessed the alien woman would ask the same question of every religion if given the chance. "Most religions here on Sarracas believe in an afterlife in some form or another. Alma's is the only major religion that sticks to being the outlier. Which is funny because they believe themselves to be the ecumenical wonder of the world."

"An ecumenical wonder…" muttered Qu'l-Nia.

"Doesn't seem weird to me." Alma shrugged. The milk in her cereal she was eating had caused it to get soggy. "It's all I've ever known. It's what I grew up around. My parents were always firm believers. My sister's a freaking priestess. Grandhag was the only skeptical one in the family. Guess traveling the world does that to you. People in my life are always either fanatics or they're totally against it."

She looked at Hwalín. There was a cold expression in her eyes.

"Mark another one on that list." Alma retreated back into the kitchen, still holding her bowl of dry, soggy cereal.

Qu'l-Nia, still thirsty for theological knowledge, continued to prod Hwalín.

“Ehh,” the red elf sneered. “Maybe another time. I already feel like a right bitch knowing I’m gonna be raiding this girl’s pantry soon.”