on his back.
Father clasped the knife and wrenched it out of Caleb’s hands. Caleb fought to get it back, but only cut himself on it. The crowd pressed him down, their screams crushing his father’s prayer.
“Lord, look to your servant, and awaken in this, thy unworthiest vessel! Lord, make me Your own !” Father coughed a gout of blood in Caleb’s face.
The crowd sprang back as if from an electric shock, then began to pound the ground again. Caleb climbed off his father and wiped the gore from his eyes.
Father lay on his back, crushed into the mud, his hands working the knife deep into his abdomen. Caleb was revolted, shocked beyond breath, but he bore witness.
Jubal Gibbons was nearly finished completing the image of his God, worked in the transient medium of his own flesh. The knife had cored out grievous circular holes in his pectoral muscles, and the spirals of radiant fury spilling out of them, converging upon the third eye over the sternum and the heart. His hands shook and nearly failed as they completed the seppuku slash of the wide, downturned mouth in the floor of his modest potbelly. Until the last foamy freshet of lung-blood splashed out of his mouth and jetted from the eyes cored out of his chest, Father prayed, “Awaken in me, Lord, make a miracle, Lord… teach my son to love you…”
The Goddess was displeased. She laid into the prone worshippers with the pail, spilling stew onto some so that others attacked them to lick it off. “Come here, boy,” she growled, but Caleb didn’t look at her. She had no power over him so long as he didn’t look, didn’t breathe…
“Come here, Caleb,” she said. “You’re a man, now. The Goddess has something to show you—”
Caleb turned to look at Father, who was quite dead. His arms lay out to the sides. The knife stood upright out of the corner of his drooling abdominal grin.
Caleb wanted to tear out his own eyes, but for what his father had said, just before he died. Knowing the Lost Gospel was an insane lie, he’d given his life for his faith, not to escape this hell, but to save his son’s soul, to awaken God—
The hag raised the hem of her bathrobe up over her hips. A stench like mothballs and old flypaper soured the air. Caleb looked at his father and prayed.
Deep in the heart-blood mandala bored into Father’s chest, a red eye opened.
The Goddess came closer. Caleb gagged on her rancid perfume, but he was so choked up with love and rage, that he was quite beyond her power.
“Here is your offering, children! The Goddess is well-pleased. Now, feast!”
They closed in on Father and began to tear at him. Caleb tried to break in, but he was clubbed and thrown away.
The mob exploded and broke apart, bodies flung and broken against the walls. Father stood as if he’d been yanked upright by a noose.
One worshipper tried to strike him with his fist, but Father’s yawned abdominal cavity gnashed jagged ribcage teeth and bit off his arm at the elbow.
Father moved through the crowd on puppeteer’s strings, arms pistoning to hammer down anyone who got in his way, or to feed them to the mouth. As he waded through the slaughter, Father soaked up horrendous blows, shrugged off men who tackled and stabbed him, and advanced, step by step, on the Goddess.
In his mutilated chest, the lower pair of eyes rolled and flashed in their settings of dead flesh, while the third bored straight ahead into the infinite, beholding all futures, all secrets. White light blazed out of the eyeholes like a radioactive jack-o-lantern. Scalding blood bubbled out of its nose slits as it snorted in scornful, Mosaic rage. The gaping, saturnine mouth quivered and sprayed sizzling gore and offal in a frustrated attempt to speak. Caleb sank to his knees and prayed silently as it lumbered past him.
The Goddess backed up to cling to the bas-relief idol carved into the wall. A weeping throng of worshippers struggled to lift her up, but her illusion faltered, and their
Father clasped the knife and wrenched it out of Caleb’s hands. Caleb fought to get it back, but only cut himself on it. The crowd pressed him down, their screams crushing his father’s prayer.
“Lord, look to your servant, and awaken in this, thy unworthiest vessel! Lord, make me Your own !” Father coughed a gout of blood in Caleb’s face.
The crowd sprang back as if from an electric shock, then began to pound the ground again. Caleb climbed off his father and wiped the gore from his eyes.
Father lay on his back, crushed into the mud, his hands working the knife deep into his abdomen. Caleb was revolted, shocked beyond breath, but he bore witness.
Jubal Gibbons was nearly finished completing the image of his God, worked in the transient medium of his own flesh. The knife had cored out grievous circular holes in his pectoral muscles, and the spirals of radiant fury spilling out of them, converging upon the third eye over the sternum and the heart. His hands shook and nearly failed as they completed the seppuku slash of the wide, downturned mouth in the floor of his modest potbelly. Until the last foamy freshet of lung-blood splashed out of his mouth and jetted from the eyes cored out of his chest, Father prayed, “Awaken in me, Lord, make a miracle, Lord… teach my son to love you…”
The Goddess was displeased. She laid into the prone worshippers with the pail, spilling stew onto some so that others attacked them to lick it off. “Come here, boy,” she growled, but Caleb didn’t look at her. She had no power over him so long as he didn’t look, didn’t breathe…
“Come here, Caleb,” she said. “You’re a man, now. The Goddess has something to show you—”
Caleb turned to look at Father, who was quite dead. His arms lay out to the sides. The knife stood upright out of the corner of his drooling abdominal grin.
Caleb wanted to tear out his own eyes, but for what his father had said, just before he died. Knowing the Lost Gospel was an insane lie, he’d given his life for his faith, not to escape this hell, but to save his son’s soul, to awaken God—
The hag raised the hem of her bathrobe up over her hips. A stench like mothballs and old flypaper soured the air. Caleb looked at his father and prayed.
Deep in the heart-blood mandala bored into Father’s chest, a red eye opened.
The Goddess came closer. Caleb gagged on her rancid perfume, but he was so choked up with love and rage, that he was quite beyond her power.
“Here is your offering, children! The Goddess is well-pleased. Now, feast!”
They closed in on Father and began to tear at him. Caleb tried to break in, but he was clubbed and thrown away.
The mob exploded and broke apart, bodies flung and broken against the walls. Father stood as if he’d been yanked upright by a noose.
One worshipper tried to strike him with his fist, but Father’s yawned abdominal cavity gnashed jagged ribcage teeth and bit off his arm at the elbow.
Father moved through the crowd on puppeteer’s strings, arms pistoning to hammer down anyone who got in his way, or to feed them to the mouth. As he waded through the slaughter, Father soaked up horrendous blows, shrugged off men who tackled and stabbed him, and advanced, step by step, on the Goddess.
In his mutilated chest, the lower pair of eyes rolled and flashed in their settings of dead flesh, while the third bored straight ahead into the infinite, beholding all futures, all secrets. White light blazed out of the eyeholes like a radioactive jack-o-lantern. Scalding blood bubbled out of its nose slits as it snorted in scornful, Mosaic rage. The gaping, saturnine mouth quivered and sprayed sizzling gore and offal in a frustrated attempt to speak. Caleb sank to his knees and prayed silently as it lumbered past him.
The Goddess backed up to cling to the bas-relief idol carved into the wall. A weeping throng of worshippers struggled to lift her up, but her illusion faltered, and their
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