CHAOS: a story about gods and afternoon recess (#ONC2023)

Chapter Two

As I walk, the bright, shining sun warms the skin that covers my physical form. I take my time and study the world around me.

The sky is familiar, but birds have evolved. Still, some familiar feathered forms flit about in the treetops, but there are new creatures. They fly at impossible heights and, accounting for the distance, must be large enough to carry away a full-grown mastodon. Their silent, gliding flight leaves behind a wake as in water and here and there the white lines cross one another. I hope I do not encounter such a creature until I've reached my full strength. The sun hangs low in the sky, so I know it's not full summer. Spring's heady musk, the aroma of new life in the moist black soil, fighting to live long enough to have sex and die, hangs rich in the air. Even the nose-burning patina of oily black fumes and unnatural odors cannot completely suppress nature's perfume.

The streets are busy. Surely, I've seen more people this day than I encountered in a year during my last incarnation. Every one of them reeks. Something is wrong with the majority of humans in this age. They smell almost like spices, almost like fruit, almost like the minerals of the earth, but never exactly of those things. Or of any other things one finds on Earth. The only ones that smell like humans are supposed to smell, sit leaning against the trunks of trees, wrapped in scraps and grinning up at me or wary-eyed as prey. They stink of rotted teeth and urine and sweat and death—the fragrance of chaos. The first few times I pass one of these wretched creatures, I breathe deeply, but after a few moments, nostalgia pricks my heart. I must focus on the future, not the past. I have a second chance. I must not waste it, as so many of my brothers and sisters would.

Everyone else traveling the flat stone path makes a wide berth around me. I nod, offering my blessing. Their deference pleases me. This is how mortals should behave when approached by a god. At least basic manners have not been forgotten. Some of the men look at me with obvious disgust. Poor souls. They are soft and pale and sickly in appearance, likely seething with jealousy as their woman cannot seem to take their gazes from my form. This is a fine body, and they take the measure of it boldly. The women of this age are like the rare creatures of the rainforest. The nails of their fingers and toes glisten in bright colors. Their teeth gleam, straight and white. Colorful textiles drape their ample, well-fed forms. Delicate bits of metal and stone dangle from their ears, around their necks, circle their ankles, wrists, and fingers. Every one of them has high, firm, round breasts. Or, perhaps their many wrappings shape them into an ideal form. How interesting would it be to unwrap such a woman—to peel away the layers and reveal the smooth flesh beneath? When I am appropriately clothed, after I've had the guardian, I will bed as many others as I can. Thinking of the guardian causes a pleasant stirring inside my loincloth.

I increase my pace, eager to get to my female. And, of course, to the high priest. Which is where my true interest and allegiance dwell.

Determined to present my best, most impressive self to my humans, I study as I travel. As a native speaker of the Divine Tongue, I can always understand or be understood, but I do not have words for half of what surrounds me. I gather them from the conversations of the other travelers as a woman gathers berries in the forest: phone, sneakers, car, bus, asshole, food truck, bitch, book, Republican, earbuds. Each syllable increases my understanding of the new world, but each measure of understanding brings more unanswered questions.

The buildings are smaller and closer together than they were back at the structure in which I awoke. I have a word for that place, now. An old man had mumbled it aloud while looking at his phone. Museum. I test the sound of the modern language on my lips. It's softer than the words of the past. More refined and lacking the inherent violence of the human speech from my memories. It is closer to the Divine Tongue, though still infinitely far away. Modern humans have a word for a place that exists for no purpose but to honor beautiful and unique items from the past and present. Those who slaughtered their enemies and ate their still-warm hearts did not even dream of such places, let alone create words for them.