Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up.
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.
“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”
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.
“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”
“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The 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. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”
The god heaved another sigh. “There’s 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. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”
Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”
“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”
Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s 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 Arepo’s 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.
“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”
“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?”
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. Arepo’s 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 Arepo’s 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, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer.
“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”
“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”
“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”
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.
“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”
“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”
“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The 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.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.
“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to
rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”
“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”
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.
Sora found the temple with the bones within it, the roof falling in upon them.
“Oh, poor god,” she said, “With no-one to bury your last priest.” Then she paused, because she was from far away. “Or is this how the dead are honored here?” The god roused from its contemplation.
“His name was Arepo,” it said, “He was a sower.”
Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. “How can I honor him?” She asked.
“Bury him,” the god said, “Beneath my altar.”
“All right,” Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.
“Wait,” the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. “Wait,” the god said, “I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.”
Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.
“When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,” the god said, “When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,” the god’s voice faltered. “When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.” Sora looked down again at the bones.
“I think you are the god of something very useful,” she said.
“What?” the god asked.
Sora carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. “You are the god of Arepo.”
Generations passed. The village recovered from its tragedies—homes
rebuilt, gardens re-planted, wounds healed. The old man who once lived on the
hill and spoke to stone and rubble had long since been forgotten, but the
temple stood in his name. Most believed it to empty, as the god who resided
there long ago had fallen silent. Yet, any who passed the decaying shrine felt an ache
in their hearts, as though mourning for a lost friend. The cold that seeped
from the temple entrance laid their spirits low, and warded off any potential
visitors, save for the rare and especially oblivious children who would leave tiny
clusters of pink and white flowers that they picked from the surrounding
meadow.
The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant
road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled
around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without
him, for he knew there was no help to be given. The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned,
if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, he
thought.
He had come to understand that humans are senseless
creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them
good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in
return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity.
Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile
kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless
creatures, humans were.
So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the
worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field
with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter
came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth,
and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god’s
work on his dying breath.
“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,” called a
familiar voice.
The squinting corners of the god’s eyes wept down onto
curled lips. “Arepo,” he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year
mutism.
“I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of
unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting
friendships, and trust,” Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.
“That’s wonderful, Arepo,” he responded between tears, “I’m
so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will
you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You’ll be adored by all.”
“No,” Arepo smiled.
“Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for
visiting here before your departure.”
“No, I will not go there, either,” Arepo shook his head and
chuckled.
“Farther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There
is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,” the elder god continued.
“Actually,” interrupted Arepo, “I’d like to stay here, if
you’ll have me.”
The other god was struck speechless. “…. Why would you want
to live here?”
“I am the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting
friendships. And you are the god of Arepo.”
I reblogged this once with the first story. Now the story has grown and I’m crying. This is gorgeous, guys. This is what dreams are made of.
When someone disagrees with you online and demands you prove your point to their satisfaction by writing a complete and logically sound defense including citations, you can save a lot of time by not doing that.
Bro, I’ve known you for twelve seconds and enjoyed none of them, I’m not taking homework assignments from you.
This got a lot of responses from people pointing out that evidence is a key part of intellectual inquiry, discourse, and debate. That being able to support your beliefs is a key critical thinking skill. Which is 100% true.
Except that you don’t actually have to participate in intellectual discourse any time some fucko on the Internet tells you to.
There’s a vast difference between “this is an important thing to be able to do,” and “this is a thing that you must be continuously available to perform in public for any stranger who asks.”
When writing always remember… a character flaw is only a flaw until becomes useful.
Is your protagonist manipulative? Well that’s awful… until they manipulate the antagonist into making a decision that saves the lives of their friends.
Is your protagonist a skeptic? Well that’s not good… until someone tries to lie to them.
Is your protagonist overprotective? That sucks… until someone they love is in danger.
Is your protagonist remorseless? Well that makes them pretty unlikeable… until a hard decision has to be made.
Hey, if you’ve never interacted with an actual wild animal before and you are visiting a National Park and seeing one for the first time here’s a helpful little guidebook for you:
- Yes that is an actual wild animal.
- No it doesn’t behave like your dog, and because you are inexperienced in the wilderness you don’t have any idea how to read its body language. Yes this includes you, even if you feel like you’ve got some sort of “special connection to animals”.
- No it doesn’t like you, it doesn’t want to be pet by you, it doesn’t want you to approach it, it doesn’t even want to be close enough to you that it’s aware of your presence.
- Yes it absolutely will attack you if it feels even a little bothered by you. No this isn’t limited just to bears and other predators, but to bison and moose and elk and basically any large animal at all.
- Yes, if it attacks you it absolutely will fuck you up.
- No, you won’t get any sympathy from anyone. It was being a wild animal and you were being a dipshit. I can tell you with plenty of experience that locals anywhere with abundant wildlife love to pass around stories of the latest asshole who got gored by a bison because they wanted a cool picture for their instagram
- The general rule for being around wildlife is that at a minimum you want to stay 25 yards away from herbivores, and 100 yards away from carnivores. That says yards, not feet. But if the animal seems to be paying any attention to you at all, you’re too close.
- No, you shouldn’t feed it. Ever. Yes, this includes you again, with your “special connection to animals”.
This probably seems a tad abrasive and unnecessary if you’re not someone who lives in the backcountry, but let me tell you I probably once a month or so have to yell at someone to back away from an animal as fast as possible because they don’t know how to read its body language and are unaware just how close their photoshoot is to getting them mauled. Just today I had to tell a lady to get away from a bison, because she didn’t know the way it was raising its tail was a warning sign. It’s extremely frustrating and disrespectful to the animals you’re stressing out because you want to post something cool to your feed. They live here, you’re lucky enough to visit, that should be enough for you. If you really love them, you’ll leave them alone.
In response to some frequently asked questions I’ve gotten on this:
- “Is feeding wildlife really THAT bad? What if I leave an animal food and don’t approach it?” Feeding wild animals is actually considered a form of animal cruelty, that’s how serious the directive to leave them alone is. Giving them food that they do not encounter naturally changes the dominant bacteria in their stomachs, and can make their actual food sources become indigestible to them. In addition, teaching them that humans are an easy place to get a meal is dangerous for you and for them. If an animal believes that cars mean humans and humans mean food, it’s likely to be hit on the road. And if an animal believes that humans equal food, and it encounters a human that does not offer food, it will become aggressive. If it is recorded as being aggressive, it will be put down. A fed animal is a dead animal.
- “What if an animal is approaching me and seems like it wants to be my friend?” As aforementioned, these animals don’t behave at all like your dog. However, if you encounter one that IS behaving like your dog, this likely means one of two things:
1. It has learned begging behaviors after being fed
2. It has contracted rabies, or if it is a cervid it may be in the late stages of chronic wasting disease. Its neurological systems have been impaired and it has lost its sense of fear.
In either case, it can pose a threat to you.
- “How does National Geographic get those cool animal photos if you’re not supposed to approach them?” Professional wildlife photographers use extremely powerful telephoto lenses or high quality trail cameras to take the detailed pictures they do. In either case, they’re very very far away. Your iPhone doesn’t come with a telephoto lens as nice as that, and that’s too bad. Not an excuse though.
-“If it’s really that dangerous to be in the wild then shouldn’t we close it off or make it safer? Why aren’t there safety protocols?”When it comes to safety protocols National Parks have a reasonably appropriate amount in place, especially when compared to the unmaintained parts of the backcountry where locals will spend a great deal of their time. Using Yellowstone as an example, not only are there regularly posted signs both on the road and at every stopping point that warn about approaching wildlife, but any time a more dangerous species has been frequenting a tourist-heavy area they post temporary signs that further warn you to stay in your car and avoid the animal entirely. Incidentally, this is where my annoyance comes from. If you are the type of person who can recognize that they don’t understand something and will instead follow the directions of a park ranger who does, then this isn’t about you. It’s about the people who saw the signs and knew they were out of their element and decided they were above the rules anyway. And how often does this happen? Absolutely constantly. It’s for this same reason that people dying in Yellowstone’s geysers isn’t as uncommon as you’d think either. Not only are there very clear walkways, but there are signs posted everywhere that warn of the dangers of leaving them in case you’ve never seen a path before. And STILL people will leave the trail, which damages the delicate ecosystem surrounding the hot springs and inevitably gets them very badly burned or killed.
As for “declawing” the wild, I really couldn’t be more against the thought. Historically speaking, this idea that many humans may never spend any significant amount of time in the wilderness is a relatively new one. And if that’s the way you’ve chosen to live then that’s perfectly fine, but I’d encourage you to recognize that just because there is a whole other world out there that you might not feel safe engaging with that doesn’t mean you should be reactionarily opposed to it. There are certainly a great number of dangers in the wild - I can attest to that personally, and anyone who chooses to spend a good amount of their time there will do the same. We all have plenty of stories of friends who have had close shaves or gotten killed, and a whole lot more of scrapes we’ve gotten ourselves into as well. No one gets to live forever, some of us choose to spend that time outside and some of us don’t. In this case there is no wrong. For me personally, the internal peace and calm and clarity I feel when I’m alone in some of the most beautiful places on earth is worth the risk I knowingly take on when I choose to be there. But for you it might not be, and that’s ok. No matter what, I’d recommend visiting National Parks whenever you have the chance, because even if it’s just to visit, the wilderness is a life-changing place to be. And without taming the wild entirely, they’re about as tame as you can get.
Like, I knew this, but I’ve never seen it laid out quite so clearly.
This is an oddball thing my mom happened to know (maybe because she was a kid when the interstate system was built?). When you see three digit highways, (190, 290, 390), they will connect with the highway that is their last two digits (90). If the first of three digits is odd, it’s a N/S; evens run E/W.
For two digit highways, the last digit (odd/even) tells you if it’s N/S or E/W.
All this mattered a lot more before we had talking maps in our pockets, but I love codes and systems nevertheless.
I love this. The direction thing is also used in addresses. On a East/West Street: Standing facing East, all houses on the Right, or South side of the street, are ODD Numbers. Those on the Left, or North side of the street, are EVEN Numbers.
(and if you live in Chicagoland - The Lake is ALWAYS EAST!).
There’s also some extra rules with the 3-digit interestate numbers. A 3-digit number cannot be repeated within a single state, but can be reused in different states. For example, there’s 5 different auxiliary interstates numbered I-110, one each in California, Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi, and Florida
There’s also a tendency for 3-digit numbers with an odd first digit to be spurs, that is, connected to its parent interstate at only a single point, while even digit first digits are typically bypasses (both ends intersecting with the parent interstate) or beltways (making a full loop)
Also, the older US highway system uses a similar numbering system, except that the numbers increase from north to south and east to west, and the major roads end in 0 or 1 (and there’s also a Highway 101 on the west coast, which is a main highway, and not associated with Highway 1, on the east coast). The interstate system used the reverse order to make it possible to avoid having an interstate and a US highway with the same number in the same state. However, the numbering is less consistent in the US Highway system
Also, there are Interstate Highways in Hawaii, Alaska, and Puerto Rico, even though they are obviously not literally interstate (and to be fair, some interstates, especially auxiliary routes, are also located entirely within a single state). The name “interstate highway” in those cases simply indicates that it’s funded by the same agency as the main interstate system. They’re designated by a prefixed H-, A-, and PRI- respectively
chadwick boseman acted in all of those films, and went to all of those interviews, and showed up to all of those events while battling stage iii and iv colon cancer. for four years…four. he didn’t say a word about whatever he may have been struggling through or whatever pain he endured. both mentally and physically. he didn’t want anyone to worry and always tried to present his “best” self to us. he was truly such a special person, and an immense influence to so many people, but especially to black youth. today is a tragic day, and his passing is a loss beyond comprehension. he was only 43. rest in peace.
“you have to cherish things in a different way when you know the clock is ticking, you are under pressure.” - chadwick boseman (nov. 29, 1977 - aug. 28, 2020)
