She Walks in Shadows(64)

I recognize some of the girls from school and see Erica Francis among them. She volunteers in the church and is the head of the youth group. She also participates in school council and is the captain of the cheerleading team.

My stomach does flips when I see that Brother Jonah is going to be delivering the mass’ sermon. Erica moves over to Jonah, touching him lightly on the shoulder. My stomach lurches to my feet and my eyes sting. When Mass is over, I wait until almost everyone has filed out before I head towards the side of the church, which is made up of small, stone shrines that are architectural miracles in themselves. Each shrine houses a god, and enough space for penitents to light candles and leave offerings.

I can feel the waves of energy pulsating through the floor as I make my way to Marchosias’ shrine. She’s standing in the center of a low-set stone altar. All the candles around her have gone out. The small, stone cave is quiet and I work automatically, knowing by heart where all of the incense and fresh supplies are. I empty the censer with the resin-fused incense blocks. Pour fresh water into the chalice at her feet, sprinkling sweet-smelling spices into the water. A few drops of the oil I blended myself. I carry the charcoal between thumb and forefinger as I hold a lit match beneath it. When it begins to sizzle, flame moving like a tiny red worm around the diameter, I place it in the center of the censer, dropping the chopped resin in.

The smoke undulates, thick as hair in the dark. Fire comes last. I bring out fresh candles, knowing that no one visits this small stone grove except for me. I feel around for the glass bottles of candles and place them tentatively at her feet. I light them, my eyes adjusting to the flare of light, as the glow begins to slowly grow all around her, around me. She’s carved entirely out of red wood. The clear glaze around her body gives her the appearance of being covered in fresh blood. Her hands are extended on either side of her, one hand extended towards me, palm open.

I reach out and touch her fingers with mine. I take the biscuits from the ziploc bag in my purse, placing them in an empty silver dish at her feet. They look dark and cracked in the candlelight, but I know she will be pleased. I light one last candle, a dark maroon taper. I kneel on the cushion at her feet and cross my arms on my chest.

When I’m done, I dip my fingers in the lukewarm water, press them to her bare feet, then to my forehead and heart. I pull the golden bangle from my wrist and slide it on to hers. The necklaces that I have brought her throughout the years glitter around her neck and torso like chain mail in the flickering light. Her wolf eyes glow yellow. At the sound from the entrance, her snout furls and her eyes shift to the doorway. I am putting the supplies back in their place when Erica enters. My anger at her intrusion in my place of worship bubbles like a sulfur swamp.

“Hey, Sorha.” My name is chewed through her mouth, mispronounced, sounding sloppy and glib.

“It’s pronounced Sor-hah.” My voice comes out quieter than I’d like it to.

“You know, they’re thinking about opening up more space for more traditional saints.”

Her voice is saccharine, her perfume floral and too heavy. I shrug my shoulders with my back to her, placing the fresh carnations in the vase. They are pink, fluffy and baby-soft. I gently pass my fingertips over them, feeling the slight warmth that they emanate. A pity that they’ll be dried up and dead soon enough, but that is the nature of sacrifice.

“They might take her out of here. Empty out this entire shrine; put her in the dark storeroom.”

I unwillingly shiver at the thought of Marchosias being placed in a cold, dank basement, forgotten. I can tell that Erica has noticed and that it’s what she’s been hoping for.

“Kind of like you. Figures this would be your god of choice.”

I turn to her, the silver vase in my hand. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

Erica sneers and rolls her eyes, tossing her hair behind one shoulder.

“You’re the only one who believes any of this is real.” she extends one hand towards Marchosias. I instinctively tighten my grip on the silver vase. “Aside from the old people, I mean. No one believes in any of this in a non-metaphorical or non-ironic manner.”

Her smile is full of teeth and I find that I want to smash her face in.

“Welcome to reality.”

She turns on her heel and walks out, leaving me shaking with anger and hurt. I try to dispel the idea that one day, Marchosias won’t be here, that my tending to her shrine is a temporary thing. I place the vase with the carnations at her feet take one last look at her now-peaceful face before I walk out. My mother is waiting for me outside the gate and we walk home in stony silence. The sky has turned gray. The wind smells like leaves and overturned earth.

“What are you thinking about?” she asks.

I don’t know how to tell her that I am thinking about Jonah, the way his slender fingers hold the heavy book with the engraved, tentacled sea monster, that I saw him running at the park without a shirt on, that he has a tattoo on the inside of his well-formed bicep of a trident with two snakes coiled around the staff.

Our priesthoods are compatible. His dedication is recognized by the church but I still have to pass the tests, and finish my volunteer hours. When I become dedicated, our gods and priesthoods would be compatible, it would be one thing we would never have to argue about, if we were together, if we ever had children... I shake my head to dispel the dreams that cut me like sharp little knives when I’m alone. I can’t tell her that everything inside of me feels like white fire when he comes near me, or that I hate Erica Francis for taking away from me everything that I want for myself. I shrug. She doesn’t insist and we talk about the sermon instead. .