Anat

I have been sitting in this house for 522 years. Before that, I was briefly dead. I slept on a bed of straw in a cedar coffin. My mausoleum was a cluttered cellar in a tiny village called Volperino. When other supposed relics were removed to Foligno, I was judged too damaged for display in a cathedral and was allowed to stay. A patron for this tiny community. Unrecognizable, but with false significance thrust upon me.

I came here by way of uneven roads worn and wearied by centuries of footfalls, on a simple cart with a single horse. Suffering every turn of the wheels in silence in my box. Before that, the waters of the Mediterranean threatened to swallow me and the boat that bore me from my homeland. I had been gifted to a great spiritual leader by another great spiritual leader in thanks for recognition of great spiritual authority. They didn't know who I was, either. I had spent the previous 647 years sitting in places of honor in other houses, being addressed by the wrong name. Being attributed the wrong powers and the wrong acts.

Before this, I was come across by a group of devout men seeking refuge in the mountains. Later they would be larger in number and one of them would receive that recognition already mentioned, but at this time they were persecuted. Their number was small and had been made smaller by baseless killings. I openly accepted their group hoping to stoke the flames of their desire for vengeance. Remaining true to their pedagogue's preachings they desired nothing but to search for their God in peace. Completely undeterred by the human remains lying broken around me, when they saw me partially buried in that forest and badly weather-worn they took it as a sign. They established a small community there and christened me a visitation of their spiritual focus. There they stayed for over two hundred years before taking an emperor's offer of relocation which began my circuitous, oft interrupted trip to where I sit now.

Before those pacifists, I was found in an empty field by some wandering men of the sea who, even while I was bereft of my adornments, recognized me for who I am. They cared for me properly. Libations, sacrifices, praise, and I rewarded them well for it. Flowing into the land from the sea, working into small places and in between centers of strength, they did what many times Rameses tried to but could never accomplish, they made a home of Hattusa. They brought me up into the mountains. For a time I was content there in those mountains, cherished by and catering to those sea people. They had taken me up to a secluded copse in the forest on the edge of a steep precipice and built me an altar and a shrine and a shelter there. They brought me the fleshy, ragged spoils of their raids and I gave them strength and determination. We flourished for a time. In time their number dwindled. Some were seduced away by promises from other groups with their impotent gods. Some lost themselves in the ways which battle shows all who set foot on its field. Others lived long but had no offspring. The last of their number, elderly but still with bright coals behind his eyes, with a great desire to avoid enfeeblement draped his arms across me and secured himself to my solidness with a length of rope. He stretched his neck out over my face and as his last loved possession, a stained steel knife, pushed through that papery, translucent, wrinkled skin I smiled and I wept.

Before those earnest seafarers, I spent some time in a field, my purity exposed to harsh treatment at the hands of brutal wind and lustful rain. I was the last evidence of what occurred there. Abandoned by those who cared for me, initially shielded from the touch of enemies by their fear and respect. But time tempers all emotions and those hearts pumping with fear grew old and gave way to new hearts pumping only greed. It was during this time that my glory and gilt was stripped from my body.

Before the field, that Great Rameses, Usermaatre Setepenre, ordered his craftsmen to free me from the matronly grip of surrounding stone. It was he who brought me to that field in order to fill his armies with a power insuperable. And that I did. The young king and his smaller force pursued the enemy there. Persuasive spearheads opened men to new life, wheels splintered, the dry ground thirstily drank spirit from horse and rider alike. At the river's edge chariots were abandoned, their drivers swimming as fast as any crocodile to flee my wrath. It was in the retreat, after the enemy regrouped and pushed back, that I was abandoned by those charged with my care. Deserted along with the the camp where my altar had been prepared. Rameses did not make that mistake twice. Without my favor he was forced to make peace with the men of Hattusa.

Before all of this was I born. Tempered in the great crucible of the Earth herself and thrust forth from her womb on the edge of a great batholith at Swenet. At the beginning of Kemet I had my beginning as well.

After all this, most of which remains unknown to them, the faithful at Volperino were happy to have me in their house. In their house...

No, this is not my house. I am in the wrong house. But they don't know that. There are many things they don't know about me. They call me St Maron, although it is not my name. But they don't know that. They ask for fatherly guidance and protection, although mine to give is the vengeful retribution of a mother whose children have been taken from her. But they don't know that. They feed me daily. A sweet liquor distilled out of tears and sweat. A hard, hearty bread of callouses and prostration. And I grow stronger. And I have grown very strong. But they don't know that.

They do not know that my name was whispered before horrible acts. They do not know that my true visage was only seen reflected in the fearful eyes of the soon-to-be-fallen on the battlefield.

I think of all I have lost and I weep and streams of dust cut across my surface. They mingle with centuries newer dust tracked in by supplicants and kicked up by the weighty hems of the cassocks. Robes which cut through smoke from censers and parishioners' doubtful thoughts alike. I think back to my former glory. My golden bands and gems inset, prised out by thieves who learned the cost of their riches too late. Men whose fingers, cleaned of flesh still stretch toward the dim ceiling of their marine resting place. I think of my house, and its gleaming basins, and their cinnabar tint. The astringent scent of sweat and saliva and bright, ferrous liquids. The acrid, pungent smoke from the pyres that would indelibly coat a man's throat and lungs. And in his heaving and retching he would belong to me. My lover alone. And his heart would pump his love out to me through his smiling neck, filling my basins. But they don't know that.

I was bathed in that blood. Crimson filtered sunlight reflected off my golden breasts. Men bowed before me and I filled their hollow hearts with my fury. They smeared my offering across their chests and in their palms and on their lips and eyelids. I firmed the grip on the blade that cleft a child from his mother's arms. I stoked the flames of hate that burned crops and flesh and houses. I was the knot in the bindings of the prisoners. I was the twitch in the hand that liberated tongues from mouths. I was the heat in the air that blackened skin! I was the darkness on the horizon at daybreak! I was the churning and the swelling! I was the heavenly bolt that rent the the ship in the storm! I was the undertow! I was the shackles! I was the icy, filamentary hand of the abyss... But they don't know any of that.

I was all these things and will be again. But they don't know. They continue lifting their sorrows to me, and I feed hungrily. But they don't know.

And every Friday after evening prayers a cassocked silhouette slides quietly into the cloister of this house. Words are murmured. Promises made. Bright, sharp metal briefly punctuates the dim interior of this house. Fabric is shifted and skin exposed. The silence of that darkness is pierced as a metallic glint screams into it. A thin film of blood is smeared on my eyes and on my lips. And the figure recedes, our tryst complete. 

But they do not know.

This story was inspired by this writing prompt from this very clever blog: Spencer's Scratch Pad