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

Chapter Thirteen

As we walk across the bridge hand-in-hand, Matthew asks if I started the fire.

"No." I help him over a tall branch. Then I reconsider. "Maybe. But it was not intentional. All chaos exists within me and I within it. Did you cause your heart to beat today?"

"Not on purpose," he says.

"It is as if chaos is my heartbeat."

We step past the midpoint. First responders urge us forward. The flashing lights of their rescue squads and firetrucks lend a festive atmosphere to the rescue, though at this point, there is really no danger beyond, perhaps, the danger of catching a chill from being wet on a cool spring day. Matthew's parents wait with them, clutching one another, his mother leaning precariously on aluminum crutches. Their cheeks are flushed pink with warm blood. Their love for their son pours out from them, the waves of it so thick it's nearly visible. Nothing about them speaks of boredom or mundane routine.

"Thanks for saving us," Matthew says.

Before I can respond, he hops off the end of the bridge and races into his mother's arms.

Emilia finds me standing near the edge of the bustle a few minutes later. "So," she says.

"So..."

"I have questions."

"Of course."

To my utmost delight, she snakes an arm around my waist and snuggles in against my side. "Have I completely lost my marbles, or are you actually a god?"

"I am Zatyafan, god of chaos."

"Not a gym teacher?"

"I will be a gym teacher if it pleases you," I tell her.

She sighs. Her warm breath tickles my skin. "Would that make you happy?"

"If you are happy, I will be happy."

"What if I want order? What if I want a cute white house with a picket fence, two children, a golden retriever and a vegetable garden planted in neat rows?"

There is no hope of suppressing the shiver that runs through me at the thought. "Is—" The word catches in my throat. "Is that what you want?"

She laughs. It is the sound of the leafy green rainforest canopy, rustling in a warm, humid breeze. "No. Not really."

I let out a relieved breath. "So, what do you want?"

"I have a little seed of an idea, but I'm not sure if I'm ready to talk about it just yet," she says. "Next question. How old are you?"

"Ancient," I say.

"Like Rome?"

"When Rome was founded, I had already been in the sleep of the gods for millennia."

"Ancient like the Appalachian Mountains?"

"When protons and neutrons formed at the beginning of time as you know it, I watched it happen."

"Damn. That's pretty old."

"Yes," I agreed.

"I mean... doesn't that make your crush on me kind of weird?"

I raise a brow at her.

"I'm just saying. You're robbing the cradle."

"There is no part of you that is infantile."

She smirks. "I do love fart jokes."

"Fart jokes have been funny for as long as anuses have existed."

At that, she bursts into a fit of laughter that leaves tears rolling down her cheeks. I'm helpless to do anything but laugh with her.

That night, for the first time since my most recent incarnation, I pass the night in a house, in a bed. I do not sleep and, for several hours, neither does Emilia. When she does drift off, she rests for so many hours that I begin to grow concerned. To pass the time and keep my mind occupied, I prepare a meal for her. It is not easy. The last time I cooked, I spit a gazelle over an open fire. But I am a god who is determined to grow and adapt.

When my woman wakes, a feast is waiting. She looks over the food and smiles. "I can honestly say that I have never seen anyone serve pancakes, jalapeño poppers, shrimp cocktail, and chocolate pudding together. This is..." She shrugs her lovely shoulders. "Chaotic."

"Can I make a plate for you?"

"Yes, please." She takes a seat and I dish up a hearty serving of each item before pouring a cup of coffee and a tall glass of peppermint schnapps for her.

"Thanks." Still grinning, she sips the coffee and nibbles the end of one of the poppers. "So, last night, you told me that chaos helps people evolve."

"I did." I had said that while she laid with her bare bottom tucked against me. The tops of my thighs had been pressing against the backs of hers. People speak of Heaven as if paradise could not exist on Earth. I know differently.

"I love being a teacher."

I tried to keep up with the abrupt subject change. "Your students adore you."

"They're not my students anymore."

"Who's going to teach them?"

"Pattinson mentioned they interviewed a woman who lives over in Matthew's neighborhood."

"Wanda?" I ask.

"That sounds right."

I pop a shrimp in my mouth, chew, and swallow. "I have not met her, but I suspect the chaos she sows will be immense."

"Well... that's... good?" Her brows arch downward as if she were trying to puzzle out the truth of that statement.

"It will be formative," I assure her.

She finishes the popper and cuts a bite of the pancake. "You're a good cook."

"Thank you."

"I want to teach chaos."

I pause, mid-bite, to consider her words. "Teach it?"

"Yes. I want to open a camp. Camp Chaos. People can come to us to learn how to adapt quickly and embrace life's wild, unexpected changes. We will have a psychiatrist and... I don't know... splatter painters and wilderness masters. We'll build ropes courses where some of the ropes break and cabins rigged to spring water leaks in the middle of the night."

Words fail. I am at a loss.

"We'll call ourselves the chaos gurus."

She is brilliant as well as beautiful. "I am in love with you," I tell her.

She toasts our life together with peppermint schnapps before digging into her chocolate pudding with gusto.