Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in.
βHope youβre a harvest god,β Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. βItβd be nice, you know.β He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. βI know itβs not much,β he said, his straw hat in his hands. βBut - Iβll do what I can. Itβd be nice to think thereβs a god looking after me.β
The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.
βYou should go to a temple in the city,β the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. βA real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. Iβm no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?β It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. βI mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. Itβs cozy enough. The worshipβs been nice. But you canβt honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.β
βThis is more than I was expecting when I built it,β Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. βTell me, what sort of god are you anyway?β
βIβm of the fallen leaves,β it said. βThe worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. Iβm a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then itβs gone.β
The god heaved another sigh. βThereβs no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. Youβre so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.β
Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. βI like this sort of worship fine,β he said. βSo if you donβt mind, I think Iβll continue.β
βDo what you will,β said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. βBut donβt say I never warned you otherwise.β
Arepo would say a prayer before the morningβs work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepoβs fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.
βUseless work,β the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. βThere wasnβt a thing I could do to spare you this.β
βWeβll be fine,β Arepo said. βThe stormβs blown over. Weβll rebuild. Donβt have much of an offering for today,β he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, βbut I think Iβll shore up this thingβs foundations tomorrow, how about that?βΒ
The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.
A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepoβs neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepoβs field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepoβs ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer.Β
βThere is nothing here for you,β said the god, hudding in the dark. βThere is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.β It shivered, and spat out its words. βWhat is this temple but another burden to you?β
βWe -β Arepo said, and his voice wavered. βSo itβs a lean year,β he said. βWeβve gone through this before, weβll get through this again. So weβre hungry,β he said. βWeβve still got each other, donβt we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didnβt protect them from this. No,β he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. βNo, I think I like our arrangement fine.β
βThere will come worse,β said the god, from the hollows of the stone. βAnd there will be nothing I can do to save you.β
The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.
And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.
Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.
βI could not save them,β said the god, its voice a low wail. βI am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.β The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. βI have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!β
βShush,β Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. βTell me,β he mumbled. βTell me again. What sort of god are you?β
βI -β said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepoβs head, and closed its eyes and spoke.
βIβm of the fallen leaves,β it said, and conjured up the image of them. βThe worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth.β Arepoβs lips parted in a smile.
βI am the god of a dozen different nothings,β it said. βThe petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -β Its voice broke, and it wept. βBefore itβs gone.β
βBeautiful,β Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. βAll of them. They were all so beautiful.β
And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god.