A Book of Dust and Breath

The First Reap

The boy lay dying while his father danced. He played his drum and sang out in prayer, begging protection from the spirits who would surely draw close as the child passed from life. Everyone knew the spirits could bring all manner of destruction. The tribe wailed and lamented in support of the man. The fires were kept stoked, hot and bright.

Another boy, older by a handful of seasons, watched from afar. He'd learned long ago to stay hidden at such time, lest anyone remember his strange and disastrous origins and blame him for any evil that may come. He could still remember the stinging pain on his chest and arms the time they threw burning embers at him because a hunt had failed on the day of remembrance of his birth.

Now, this child had been struck on the head by a rock and he would surely be gone by morning. The older boy had been among the men. No one could blame him of foul play, but they could certainly blame the bad luck surrounding him.

The one who had always protected him was, herself, dead and gone now. She'd been quite old, after all--nearly forty years! No one could ask for more than that from the gods. At least, that's what she told him as she prepared his favorite meal for the last time. "You must clean every bit of the inside out before you stuff the grain in. Wrap it in leaves to keep the fat inside and don't cook it in the flame, but in the coal. It takes longer, but it is worth the wait."

"Why do you tell me this now?" he'd asked.

"Because my heart hurts in my breast and I know it will not go on much longer. You must learn to stand on your own. When I am gone, you will be alone."

He understood why his people viewed him as they did. It had been explained in great depth by the spirit leader. His mother had lain with a god--one who appeared from nowhere, bigger and stronger than any man--and she had died in birth as a result. The baby was left to die in the snow, but when he still cried after three days his protector took mercy, brought him inside the cave, and fed him on the milk of a goat. Within a day his frozen skin glowed as soft and smooth as that of any other newborn.

It was unnatural, they said. It was evil. But they feared the retribution of his father and so he was allowed to live, though never truly as one of them.

He knew enough, even at a young age, not to speak of the Shining One who played with him in the forest. The Shining One seemed always to be injured, but never to seem much bothered by his wounds, which were never the same twice. He teased the boy, but it was different from the teasing of his peers. Playful and silly, never hurtful or mean.

"Are you my father?" He'd once asked.

The Shining One thought that was a marvelous joke. He'd rolled on the ground, holding his sides and laughing. "I am not," he said. "I would not be with a human. You are too strange, like bald apes. You're funny, though."

"Is that why my father loved my mother? Because she made him laugh?"

The Shining One seemed to give serious consideration to that question. "Maybe so. Azrael does not laugh easily. I don't really know. It's not my place to explain the incomprehensible."

"Do you think I'll ever meet him?"

"If you do, I'll come to you and be sure you are safe."

The boy, accustomed to being thought of as strange, dangerous, and a nuisance, puzzled over that. "Why would you do that for me?"

"I love you, because you first loved me."

And the boy did love him. He loved everyone. Even those who hurt and frightened him. He couldn't help but to love them. He saw in each person a bright, shining silver strand of light that connected straight to his own heart. That light was a web, touching each blade of grass and every insect upon the ground and every bird soaring the sky overhead. The Shining One was part of the web, but different. He was the branch to which the web was anchored. He was the filament from which the web was created. He was a still water, reflecting the web upon itself.