Chapter 12 – The Quest is Revealed
I open my mouth a fraction to say something, but nothing comes out. My vocal chords feel like they are mentally held back. What, exactly, can I say that will make sense?
What is a god slayer?
“Say that again,” I prompt. Surely, I’ve misheard? Yes, that’s it.
Phylida looks to my father and says, “We kill gods. That’s all there is to it. Nothing more, nothing less. We destroy what is impossible to destroy.”
I’m still not sure I’m getting it. It’s such an impossible concept, like juggling the sun or eating clouds. Some fact seems to be eluding me but I can’t quite grasp it.
“Say that again,” I repeat. I know I sound dumbstruck, a little stupid, but I don’t care. They need to explain.
Father sighs. “It may not make sense to you just yet. It was difficult for me to understand as well. We all felt like this when our parents told us. According to my father, Phylida especially had a hard time.”
Phylida grunts. “I was seven when my mother told me.”
Harold says, trying to hold in a laugh, “She climbed on top of the Glass Palace with a butter knife and called down the gods so she could kill them. She slid off and broke both her arms.”
“I nearly died,” says Phylida a little moodily. She reminds me of a petulant four year-old. “My healed bones still ache when the weather changes.”
The three so-called god slayers break out in laughter. I don’t join in. I’m still too confused. They have a rich history together that I can’t even begin to understand. None of what they say makes any sense.
Harold notices my perplexed face.
“Our young charge is on the verge of leaving us,” says Harold, giving me a wink that tells me he understands. “Perhaps we should continue the story? Phylida’s many embarrassments can wait for another time.”
Father claps his hands together enthusiastically. “You probably want to ask the question, how can we be god slayers when it’s obvious we haven’t actually slain any gods?”
I nod.
Father says, “We all know the gods are still alive, cracking the very earth with their petty fight, killing people, killing everything, but things weren’t always this way. They weren’t always destroyers of worlds.”
I look for one of them to explain. I just don’t understand. I know all this already. Where is this heading?
“There was a time before all of this, before the gods and before the Felum and even before the Order of Power,” says Father. He smiles wistfully, probably imagining the world the way it used to be. “Back then, things were a lot simpler than they are now. There were many gods in that era; we think at least five, though we can’t be sure of the exact number. They were worshipped and loved by the people. We think even one of them could control animals, though I’m sure that’s just a myth. Anyway, several of these other gods went rogue and, for selfish reasons we don’t yet know of, tried to kill the gods we have now.”
There had been more gods? I can’t quite fathom this. What were their names? What did they look like? I wish I’d taken the time to have breakfast now.
“They failed, I take it,” I say.
Father continues, “Yes, they failed miserably. What they didn’t expect, what nobody really expected, was that gods couldn’t kill other gods. They can harm them, yes, but not kill each other. Nobody knows why. Maybe the gods once knew why and they forgot, or maybe we knew why and the knowledge was taken from us. After this discovery Mixcoatl and Ninurta decided that...”
I put my hand up.
“What is it?” Father demands. He doesn’t like to be interrupted.
“Who are Mixcoatl and Ninurta?”
“They’re the true names of the gods,” says Phylida in awe, almost a whisper. “Everything has a name, including the gods.”
I mumble, “I just never thought that they had names.”
I know the real names of the gods. This is information that no mortal being should know. I look up, fearing that the gods would come crashing down through the Glass Palace at any moment, to smite us for speaking of their sacred names. Even though nothing happens, I still feel uneasy.
“I call them Tornado and Blue Hair,” I admit. I laugh. “They’re stupid names, I know, but that’s what I thought when I saw them.”
“Ninurta’s blue hair is his most distinguishing feature,” says Phylida, pulling fingers through her own hair. “Despite everything, I quite like it.”
I think back to my brief glimpse of the gods. Ninurta’s hair had been a shocking luminescent blue that reflected the rays of the sun. Mixcoatl’s legs had seemed to blur in motion like his feet were running extraordinarily fast, which was why I’d called him Tornado.
“Why is it that no one has thought to wonder what their names are?” I ask. “It seems such a simple thing to consider.”
“It’s thought blasphemous to give them names,” says Harold. “Plus it makes people feel uneasy. It still makes me uneasy to even talk about it now. I get this itch at the back of my neck.”
Giving them names makes them feel less powerful somehow. Humans have names. Even animals have names. Gods are just gods, nameless beings of a higher power. What if I come face to face with Tornado and Blue Hair? Would I dare to call them by their true names? Has anybody dared to call them their true names and lived to tell the tale? And who had given them those names? Gods just appeared out of nowhere, didn’t they? Did an even more powerful god create them?
Father continues with the original story. “Mixcoatl and Ninurta decided that if a god couldn’t kill another god then there could be only one logical solution. Only a mortal could kill an immortal. They joined together with some human scientists and they came up with the God Cannon, a weapon they hoped was capable of killing gods. It was infused with energy from Mixcoatl and Ninurta themselves and could only be operated by a human. The God Cannon worked just like they thought it would. The other gods were brought down, killed, and peace was restored to the world.”
I try to imagine it in my mind; a weapon that can murder a god. It would have to be huge. But how then would they be able to disguise it from the rogue gods if it was so big? What happens when a god falls to earth, dying? Does nature itself shake as the universe changes? This is just too much to comprehend.
“So there was peace,” I say, mentally filing away my questions. “I’d like to have seen that.”
“The peace didn’t last that long,” says Father. “It was after the bodies of the dead gods were set adrift into space that a terrible tragedy occurred. It turned Mixcoatl and Ninurta from the best of friends, brothers even, into the bitterest of enemies.”
“What was the tragedy?”
“We don’t know,” says Phylida. “Nobody does.”
“I think they realized they went too far,” suggests Harold. “They were not meant to kill each other, and one of them suffered great guilt over it and released his anger on the other. One can only imagine what emotions go through the mind of a god.”
Phylida says, “No one has spoken to a god in a long time. For all we know, they’ve ditched their emotions. It certainly seems that way. Otherwise they’d see what they were doing to the world.”
“Perhaps they haven’t discarded their emotions,” I suggest. “Maybe they are just indifferent to all mortal living beings.”
I look down at my shoes, leathery and dirty. I know I’m right. The gods just don’t care about us anymore. While this thought does sadden me, it doesn’t debilitate me. After all, what have they done for us exactly, apart from destroyed civilization?
I motion for Father to continue. “When the feud began the Felum had arrived from nowhere, and the Order of Power had just been established. Humanity had, by then, realized that if the gods weren’t stopped from their destructive fighting, they would destroy the entire planet. The Order revered the gods and thought humanity didn’t have the right to kill them. So they found the God Cannon and dismantled it,
killing all who worked with it or who had knowledge of it. So with the only means of killing the gods gone, and the Felum running feral and the Order trying to control us, humanity could only sit back and watch as Mixcoatl and Ninurta’s fighting triggered the apocalypse.”
As Father and Harold argue about how there hadn’t been an apocalypse exactly, as humanity still lived and thrived, I try to imagine the feelings of the people of the past. How frightening it must have been to watch their world fall apart.
“Mixcoatl and Ninurta’s first skirmish was their most deadly,” Father goes on, giving Harold a deadly look that says their argument is over. “They destroyed the continent of Australia in ten seconds flat, killing millions of people in the process. The shock wave caused earthquakes, volcano eruptions, and tsunamis all over the world. No government and no army could stand against them. All we could do was try to keep safe and hope and pray they didn’t destroy our home.”
“Did they not realize what they were doing?” I wonder. I have to say this, to let it out. “They’re gods. I’ve seen books about religions, legends, and mythology. Gods are supposed to love us. They’re supposed to care about us!”
“They did care about us once, I’m sure,” says Phylida sadly. “They’re virtually mindless now, utterly consumed by their desire to kill each other.”
“They can’t kill each other,” I point out.
“That hasn’t stopped them,” Phylida says. “Who knows? Maybe, in their rage, they think if they fight and fight for long enough then eventually they might be able to kill each other. It would be nice to just go up to them, if we could find them, and ask, but as far as I know they don’t talk to humans anymore.”
“Why doesn’t everybody know this?” I say. “The survivors numbered in their billions, right? They must have passed on stories or books.”
“Over the centuries, billions more have died because of the gods, from wars, from starvation, and from diseases,” says Phylida. “Stories are forgotten, lost or misinterpreted along the way.”
“Then this is where the Order of Power comes in,” interrupts Harold. “They’re the self-appointed church of the gods. The gods don’t care for them but they do their best to destroy any remaining information left in the world that pertains to the gods. Any literature on the gods is burned and any person who knows anything about them is killed. They want the gods to be revered in mystery, so the less we know about them the better. The Order of Power is in a way worse than the gods. They boost their numbers through some sort of brain tampering. They take you and scramble your brain up and then you become one of them. You do what they say, no matter how repugnant.”
Phylida puts her arm on Harold’s shoulder. There is a tear running down his cheek. I don’t dare ask what was wrong.
“The three of us, along with your mother and Uncle Rooster, are just some of the members of our society scattered around what’s left of the world,” says Harold, his emotions under control once again. “For the past six hundred and fifty-three years we’ve been gathering information and trying to locate where The God Cannon was kept when it was disassembled.”
I blink, not sure I heard him right. “You know the exact date?”
“The god slayers are the only ones who do know the exact date,” says Phylida. She hefts Harold’s backpack onto the bed, which I had fetched from the woods earlier in the day and given to Father. Harold starts digging inside it and brings out a thick leather bound book. He opens it to a certain page and says, “Today is the 12th May 2665.”
I can’t help but feel a little giddy. We know how to calculate months and days and years but we could never be entirely sure what year it actually is. Back when the original Casper had started the House, I’m sure that knowing what day of the month it was didn’t seem that important.
Harold wipes his tear away and comes out with a huge grin. “I think I know where it is.”
“Where what is?” I ask.
Harold sighs. “I know where the God Cannon is.”
The tone in the room lightens. I see hope in Father’s eyes, and pride in Phylida’s.
“Where is it?” I ask.
Harold taps the side of his nose. “Only I know that, and it stays that way for the time being. Only when we’ve gone out, will I reveal its location.”
“What do you mean?”
Father looks at me in concern and says, “A group of us are leaving.”
So here we are at the crux of Father’s explanations. He’s leaving The Glass Palace. I can’t even comprehend the danger he’s heading into. I don’t want him to die. He’s my father and I love him.
“Who’s going with you?” I ask. I can’t look at him.
“Harold of course, when he gets better,” says Father. Harold gives him a mock salute with his injured hand and groans in pain. “Rooster will be coming with me, and so will Phylida and Rafe, one of Skye and Brian’s fathers. I expect all our husbands and wives to object quite vehemently, but it has to be done.”
I finish the sentence off for him. “Even if some of you might not come back? Is that what you were going to say?”
Father sighs. I can see he is worried about the mission, and about me. I understand why he has to do this, even if I don’t want to lose him. I still wonder though why it has to be him. Surely, there are other people that could go in his stead? He is the mayor, he can delegate.
“This is the most dangerous mission mankind has ever faced,” says Father. “There is a chance that some or all of us might die, but we have to do this. We’re the only ones who can.”
“The Glass Palace needs you,” I object, my mind frantically trying to come up with more excuses. “This place would crumble without you leading them! You’re the mayor!”
“When I leave in a few months, I won’t be the mayor any longer.” He places his hands on my shoulders and looks me in the eyes. I have a nasty suspicion. “You will be.”
What do I know about running a whole House by myself?
“Are you joking?” I ask him.
“You’re going to be mayor someday anyway,” says Father, pulling me to my feet. “You’re just going to take over the reins a little earlier than you thought, that’s all. It shouldn’t be too difficult for you.”
I laugh. “How can you possibly expect me to run the House? I’m fifteen! You’re being ridiculous! Have Mother be the mayor instead.”
“You are the mayor.”
I pull myself away and go for the door. He can’t make me do it. I’m not ready. He’ll have to ask someone else. There is no way I can manage it!
“BEN CASPER!” Father shouts. I stop, but refuse to look at him. “You are going to be mayor and you are going to be the best this House has ever seen. I’m not leaving for a while yet but until then I will train you on what it takes to be a good mayor. You will trail me and watch how I do things. You will talk to the people, ask their opinions, and above all, you will do this not because it’s your duty but because I’m asking you to as your father.”
I can’t help but cry. I weep like a babe and father hugs me tight and tells me he will come back and that I’ll do a wonderful job in his absence. I try to believe his words as he sounds so sincere, but I just can’t. I just know I’ll never see him again if he leaves.