Basil: God of the Quiet Places

I am in a desert. The night sky is bright, much brighter than I am used to seeing it. There is no light pollution here, and it is a cloudless night. I can see the milky way above me, name all the constellations, even ones I've never seen before, obscured as they are in more populated areas by the smog and the lights. I am barefoot, dressed simply in linen shorts and a t-shirt. The sand under my feet is cool and soft. I start walking, just for something to do. I do not know how long I walk. The stars and the moon move across the sky but the sun never rises. The night keeps going, and the moon sets and new stars appear, stars I shouldn't be able to see this time of year and night. After…hours? years? I see something on the horizon. I walk towards it. As I approach, the object becomes clear—a church, simple, small, and wooden. There are no panes in the windows, but there is a bell in the steeple and it is ringing. I reach the church. There is no one inside, hasn't been for years, but the church bell goes on ringing. The floor and the wooden pews are covered in sand blown in through the open windows. I walk inside. I am not in the habit of entering abandoned churches: there is no such thing as an empty temple. But I have a feeling that whatever lives here is kind.

Inside the church, I brush the sand off a pew and sit down. There is a wind blowing through the chapel's windows. It stirs the sand into a cloud. The temple is not empty, although the thing occupying it is not human, not even clearly living. I watch the sand. Shapes seem to appear and disappear in the patterns it forms. After a time it seems to coalesce into a coherent form. Whether I am looking at a god or some other spirit I don't know. Something like a man forms in the swirling sand. It has no face, but it seems to be smiling anyway. The wind whispers, then blows strong for a sudden moment, breaking the illusion. I shut my eyes against the sand.

I open my eyes. I am in the woods, kneeling in the ruins of a stone foundation. I am alone, and the moon is bright overhead. After a moment, I find my bearings. I am a mile out on the trails. My body is sore, like I have been running. I cough a little. There is sand in my mouth. I am wearing light woolen trousers and an unbuttoned cotton shirt. There is a slight breeze, cool against my skin. The earth beneath me is warm. I touch my face. the illusion I usually wear is gone. I reach for it again, try to summon up the glamor. I can't. I look around again. There is a hollowed-out stone on the ground in front of me, full of water. I rise unsteadily to my feet and walk over to it. In the moonlight I can see my reflection. I have not seen my true face in years. I have rarely owned mirrors, and if I was renting a place with a mirror that I couldn't remove, I would cover it. The few times I have been photographed have been while wearing the illusion. It is almost strange to see what I really look like. The scars on my face have faded to thin silvery lines, mapping a past I have tried hard to forget. the water ripples slightly and I see in my reflection the face of my ancestors. I have not known my face in so long that it has turned into the face of my brother, gazing back through the water through a decade of loss.

I see someone approach me from behind in the reflection. I do not turn around. When they reach me, they put a hand on my shoulder. If there was any tension left in my body it would have melted away at their touch. This was the god in the desert, the god of the temple I now stood in. I bow my head.

You are safe now, little one. The god’s voice echoes in my mind. My cheeks are wet. When did I start crying?

“What’s your name?” I wondered if I should turn to face them. I do not move. There is no answer, and the hand on my shoulder is lifted. I know the god is gone without even turning around. I have to get back to camp. The sun is rising. I walk out of the crumbling foundation, back toward the camp.

As soon as I step across the stones, I can feel fear take root in my lungs again. I have to rebuild my glamor. I can’t be seen like this. I grasp at my neck for my bone talisman necklace. I take deep shuddering breaths to settle the panic swirling in my throat, and begin chanting, trying to hold the image of what the glamor should look like in my mind. It takes me three tries to get it right. When I am certain I will not be caught, I run through the forest back to the camp. The regular path is uncommonly obstructed by fallen trees and brush, so I take deer trails and desire paths. Somewhere in the back of my mind I remember the warnings about staying on the trails. I do not listen to them.

I am running longer than I think I ought to. I did not think I was so deep in the woods as this. Suddenly, my foot catches on a low hanging branch and I find myself sprawled on the ground. I do not recognize this part of the forest, so I look up to the stars to reorient myself. The sky is clear, but my vision is pulsing and I can’t focus well enough to make anything out. The panic surges in my throat, and my vision goes dark.