Story for the Day: Aoidhe -- Part 3
Let it never be said that the Gods do not have a sense of humour. They simply have a sense of humour that doesn't agree with everyone:
Aoidhe went on, tootling to himself over the injustices of a mosquito’s existence, postulating that they probably came from the north somewhere, made by the Gods of some other people which migrated as the many nations of the continents began to meet and converge—probably a Lucentian nusance, their winters being warm and damp, giving the barbarous parasites a place to thrive—probably come down on fleet ship or a trading barge, lurking in fetid pools of stangnant water in unclean holds—had they come down in winter, they should have all died out—and the cleric listened to Aoidhe’s ramblings, and stared at his desk and sulked. There was no order to the world: it was everyone for themselves, everything was left entirely up to chance, the Gods had no say in the matter, they played no part in salvation, and if Aoidhe’s character was to be any judge, they had little inclination to hinder many of the evils that were injuring their children. Blessings like Ogham’s Gift and Paudir’s Wisdom were all very well, and they had their uses, but healing wounds could not feed hungry mouths, and knowledge, though indispensable, could not keep those like Matias Dreen from attacking his child and being heartless toward his wife. The Children of Gods must be left to shift for themselves and make their way as they could: they had sinned against one another, this everyone learned as children, forcing the Gods to leave them, to fend for themselves and learn how to be a compassionate and dutiful race once more, but that children should be allowed to be hurt—that the dispossessed should continue in destitution-- It was a terrible notion, as disagreeable to recognize as it was to accept, and the cleric leaned over his desk, his hand at his brow, and agonized over the orchestration of the world.
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A sewynpaudir of Libhan. |
The cleric now wished he had not
been half so grateful for Aoidhe’s blessing; a covey of old
crones coming to his
infirmary to bemoan their daily terrors would be felicity to being invigilated
by a diety whose only joy was a lark. Someone else would have helped the boy if
he had not intruded upon Aoidhe’s plan, and now that he had made the boy’s
wellbeing his concern, he must have Aoidhe looming over his shoulder, spying
his every step, hearing his every breath.
You
got Ogham’s blessin’ there, the voice reminded him, and that don’t bother you. So this here’s my blessin’.
There was a tinge of archness in
the voice, and the cleric dreaded saying he was grateful for such attention; he
feared that all the derision he had been industriously restraining might come
out.
Bah,
don’t worry yerself, lad. There was a curt chuff. Won’t be around you long. Other things need doin’, like lookin’ after
my boy. I’m only here so’s I can codd you a bit more. If yer after bein’ a dry
ol’ stick now, I might go away.
“Well, I like tea and old medical
texts, and little else,” the cleric murmured to himself. “I daresay that should
be tedious enough for you,” and then remembering, he added a pointed, “—My
Lord.”
Nah,
that’s not too terrible. Some o’ my brothers are as dry as the hills in a
drought. Just listenin’ to Menor makes me yawn.
Would
that he were here now, the cleric thought to himself, in a furtive way.
Yer blessin’sake Ogham is like that too. We
used to codd him a bit about his tacklin’ and about the lake and all. Sure was a right
gala bein’ after him, but when he didn’t say nothin’ about it, we went aff it. Could
curl the paint on a latrine faster than than the smell, I’ll tell ya that.
The cleric tried not to laugh, hoping that by
merely disregarding Aoidhe, the God would feel himself ignored and go away, and
he said nothing, therefore, as he stepped over the threshold of the infirmary.
An implied grin was forced on him. Aye, yer laughin’. Think I can’t hear you,
but I know her laughin’.
The cleric stopped and bowed his
head. “It is not that I didn’t think your comment amusing, My Lord,” said he,
endeavour to suppress a smile, “but I do not think it right to laugh at a God.”
Why
not? Sure I do it all the time, ‘specially if they’re worth laughin’ at.
“If I may say, My Lord, it might be
perfectly acceptable for you to mock a sibling, but it is considered blasphemy
if I should concede to mock a God.”
Why?
Who said that? I sure never did. Ogham and Menor are ripe for a coddin’. You got my permission for a good ol’
mockin’.
“As you say, My Lord.”
The cleric would not disparage
anyone, be they friend or God, and seeing that trying to ignore Aoidhe was not
an effective manner in which to rid of him, he tried to distract himself with a
few busy nothings: he fussed about the frontispiece, pulled up a few
lambsquarters from the flower beds, and rearranged the flagstones around the
front door, glad there there was no one about to watch him doing things that
did not need doing or to hear him speaking to persons who were not there. He
peered into the infirmary window, half terror and half hope of finding a
patient awaiting his services. Aoidhe, the cleric was sure, would not plague
him whilst he was caring for someone—he hoped he would have the descency to
allow him to do his work—but when he saw no one in the patient’s seat, he had a
moment’s fear of being beleaguered all afternoon. A pause here, the cleric
placed his ear to the infirmary wall, trinkling through the thin stone,
wondering whether Aoidhe himself were not awaiting him. He hesitated, grubbling
his pockets in agitation, and once he floundered a bit, intending that Aoidhe
should be thoroughly dispassionate by now, he opened the door to his office,
trundled over to his desk, and sat down, his eye instinctively falling on the
papers before him. His hand moved mechanically toward the teapot, and his
attention drawn to his usual daily activities, he had almost forgot Aoidhe’s
interference. He pulled his hand away from the teapot and glanced at the
ceiling, wondering whether Aoidhe were still mantling over him from his
imperceptible bough when a sudden notion struck him: if I have Aoidhe’s attention, perhaps I should take this time to ask
some long-debated questions. If he’s going to hover around me, I might as well
make use of it. The general ‘why are were heres’ and ‘what are we supposed
to dos’ were the first inquiries to emerge from the recesses of so
well-furnished a mind. He knew his purpose, as he had always been desirious of
healing and learning the miracles of the body, but the questions of why must
there be illness and pain and devastation bore no common weight on a conscience
that would ask now that the chance was given him. All the minutiae of birth and
subsistence, of suffereance and extinction, the many wonderings that
perambulated ideas of existence, the opalescent reverie of fleeting
pernoctations which revive with the gloaming and vanish in the aubade of first
light, the whys and hows of a life tolerably lived directed themselves to the
ether, but no answer was given him, nor when he said, “Are you there, My Lord?”
was there the wry intimation of Aoidhe’s spirit. He waited and glaced round the
infirmary, believing at least for the present that he was alone.
‘Member
what I said about you thinkin’ we’re not listenin’?
The cleric, though somewhat
pleased, tried not to seem pained. “That is just when you are listening most,
My Lord,” he grumbled.
A fleer beamed somewhere. Usin’ that head o’ yers for somethin’ other
than healin’.
“Thank you, My Lord. I’m glad
you’ve noticed.”
Aye,
yer learnin’ the ol’ coddin’. Not leavin’ you just yet, lad. Brother Brudha’s
still with my boy, tellin’ him what’s what.
“Well if you will stay, My Lord,”
said the cleric, turning to his examining table and addressing no one, “may I
ask you something?”
Just
did, lad. You been askin’ me questions this whole time.
“Well, yes,” said the cleric,
trying for greater warmth than his exhausted spirits might otherwise allow. “Not
that I mean to question your authority, My Lord—“
But
you do, ‘cause yer doin’ it.
“Yes, in so many words, I
suppose—but if you are all-seeing and all-hearing, why do you allow parents to
harm their children, as Matias Dreen has done with your son? Why not punish
them directly for their transgressions?”
By
sendin’ lightenin’ down and that?
The cleric shrugged. “I suppose. If
that how the thing is usually done.”
There was an ethereal shake of the
head. Can’t do the lightenin’. Well, I
could if I asked Frannach to borrow some since he’s got dominion over that, but
I’m not askin’ him anythin’. Sure, he’s
my brother, but that don’t mean he’s kind and all. Always got a sour look on
him. Can’t never enjoy himself. Always gotta be doin’ his Goddin’ and that,
ridin’ his chariot and drivin’ the horses and all. The voice paused, and
the cleric imagined Aoidhe stroking his chin. Suppose I could ask Fuinnoeg, bein’ruler o’ the sky and all, but
lightenein’ and smitin’ don’t mean much. We don’t harm our children, just as we
wouldn’t want ‘em to harm others, and smitin’ ‘em down don’t change who they
are.
“But why don’t you stop people from
hurting one another?”
It’d
put you out of a job.
The cleric’s lips pursed. “All
larks aside, My Lord.”
Aye,
I get what’s botherin’ you. When we created you, we wanted to give you free
reign o’ yerselves, that means all the good and all the bad. What good you do
is your doin’, and what bad you do ain’t our fault. Sure don’t want the blame
for things like murderin’ and thievery and cabbages.
“But many blame the Gods anyway, My
Lord.”
Aye,
well, they can blame Chune for the cabbages. She likes coddin’ yous all more’an
I do. I just get all the blame in it ‘cause everyone thinks I seed the ground.
I don’t do that. Farmers do. Chune made cabbages to fool the farmers into
cookin’ ‘em. Sometimes, you take things a mite too serious.
The cleric hardly knew what to make
of this, and his eyes flickered back forth. “Are you being serious, My Lord?”
Aye.
Ol’ Ale Jugs has a right laugh everytime one o’ yous starts boilin’ a cabbage. Can
smell that all the way up here.
“Not about the cabbages,” the
cleric hissed, trying not to shout. “I meant do you have no control over what
your children do, My Lord? Shouldn’t you, if you created us?”
None
o’ you’d like it if we were just tellin’ you what to do all the time. Sure,
it’d be more peaceful and all, but you’d just be doin’ what we say. Ain’t no
fulfillin’ life that way. We got together to create children, not slaves. Ain’t
no point in havin’ children what don’t live for ‘emselves. We get joy outta
watchin’ you thrive and lovin’ each other.
“But your children suffer, My Lord.
Does this not matter to you?”
‘Course
it matters to me, said the voice, in an artless and serious tenor. Matters to all o’ us. Sure, you can ask us
for help if you need it. Don’t mean we’re always in a way to give it to you
right when you ask, though. You can help yerselves, and if you can’t, you can
help each other. You help those who need you, don’t ya, and you feel fulfilled
doin’ it.
“Well…” the cleric hesitated, “I
do—surely, I do, but…” His brow furrowed. “But there are so many who need
help—and the type of help I cannot give. I can only heal surface wounds and
diseases. I cannot adopt every orphaned child. I cannot feed all the needy or
house the homeless--”
Why
not?
The cleric was silenced here, and
though he would have amended with justifications of his having no spare rooms
or desire to be a parent, he felt it advisable not to defy Aoidhe.
The
Brothers and Sisters at the church do it. They raise and feed orphans, they
clothe and teach the poor. ‘Member we didn’t create poverty, didn’t create
money or rent or anythin’ else that would drive folk outta their homes. We gave
you a land, we gave you seeds and the knowhow to plant ‘em, but farmers gotta
put prices on their goods so’s they can pay a landlord, landlord’s gotta charge
his tenants so he can pay the tax. We didn’t make none ‘o these things. I ain’t
sayin’ they’re good or bad things, just sayin’ what is. The kingdom pays you
for healin’. Would you do it if you didn’t get pay?
“I would, My Lord,” the cleric
declared, but then, with a softened air, “only I would not be able to pay for
food, and I would have to sleep in the infirmary. If I was given food in return
for services, perhaps that would do very well, but as it is, I could not
survive--” He stopped here. A knowing smile bore down his conscience, and he
stared at the ground and sighed. “Yes, My Lord. I see what you mean. I agree
that we can help one another to an extent, but what of things we have no
control over, like weather changes and crop failures? Aren’t you and Chune
responsible for the crop yield?”
Only
‘cause folk think we are. Not in charge o’ the weather or the plantin’. We can
help with a bad yield, but the plants and weather got just as much free will as
you do. When we made you, there were
agreements we had to folla: yer souls’d folla a natural progression, no makin’
you fly or bendin’ nature and all, but we were allowed to give you blessin’s.
“So you cheated the laws of nature
by giving us abilities that no other nation has?”
Exalted and invisible brows knit
together. Weren’t no cheatin’ in it. Gave
you things to help yerselves, like healin’ and creativity and that.
“And yet you still allow calamity
in the world, My Lord? Floods and fires, illness in children—“
Now,
now, the voice sang, ‘member what I said. Yous’re supposed to be helpin’ each other. Wouldn’t be no poverty if
you helped each other a bit more, wouldn’t be no hunger if you fed everyone.
More than enough land and food for everybody, and yet some o’ yous’re still
fightin’ over fields and not feedin’ those asking for bread. Our children pray
to us for help, and we give it best we can, but if you ignore the sufferin’,
that’s yer doin’. ‘Member, that’s why we left, ‘cause none o’ yous’ere bein’
nice to each other. Some things happened after we left that we couldn’t do
nothin’ about, like disease. Bacteria got a right to live as you do. We can’t
just go killin’ ‘em ‘cause what harms one might be beneficial to another. As a
cleric, you oughta know that.
“That is certainly true,” the
cleric submitted, “although I admit, My Lord, I do not see how some bacteria
can be a help to anybody. What about other diseases brought on by insects?
Those diseases only harm. They can debilitate and even kill.”
A shake of the head reigned here. Didn’t create ‘em. Don’t like some of ‘em
anymore than you do, but can’t destroy what has a purpose. Carrot fly’s gotta
eat carrots, potato beetle’s gotta eat potatoes, fruit flies gotta fornicate.
There was a pause. Don’t know what
mosquitos are for, but I’d sure kill ‘em if I could.
“But you give life, My Lord—“
Aul’
Man Diras does that. You’ll have to ask him the purpose o’ mosquitoes. Probably
just coddin’ us on those. Even Reis asked him what they were for ‘cause they
were botherin’ her while she was lookin’ in on a few o’ yous. Aul’ Man said
their larvae feed the fish. Aul’ Man Diras is a bigger codder than me. Don’t
believe him for a second. Fish got plenty to eat without mosquitos.
Aoidhe went on, tootling to himself over the injustices of a mosquito’s existence, postulating that they probably came from the north somewhere, made by the Gods of some other people which migrated as the many nations of the continents began to meet and converge—probably a Lucentian nusance, their winters being warm and damp, giving the barbarous parasites a place to thrive—probably come down on fleet ship or a trading barge, lurking in fetid pools of stangnant water in unclean holds—had they come down in winter, they should have all died out—and the cleric listened to Aoidhe’s ramblings, and stared at his desk and sulked. There was no order to the world: it was everyone for themselves, everything was left entirely up to chance, the Gods had no say in the matter, they played no part in salvation, and if Aoidhe’s character was to be any judge, they had little inclination to hinder many of the evils that were injuring their children. Blessings like Ogham’s Gift and Paudir’s Wisdom were all very well, and they had their uses, but healing wounds could not feed hungry mouths, and knowledge, though indispensable, could not keep those like Matias Dreen from attacking his child and being heartless toward his wife. The Children of Gods must be left to shift for themselves and make their way as they could: they had sinned against one another, this everyone learned as children, forcing the Gods to leave them, to fend for themselves and learn how to be a compassionate and dutiful race once more, but that children should be allowed to be hurt—that the dispossessed should continue in destitution-- It was a terrible notion, as disagreeable to recognize as it was to accept, and the cleric leaned over his desk, his hand at his brow, and agonized over the orchestration of the world.
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