Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in.
โHope youโre a harvest god,โ Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. โItโd be nice, you know.โ He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. โI know itโs not much,โ he said, his straw hat in his hands. โBut - Iโll do what I can. Itโd be nice to think thereโs a god looking after me.โ
The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.
โYou should go to a temple in the city,โ the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. โA real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. Iโm no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?โ It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. โI mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. Itโs cozy enough. The worshipโs been nice. But you canโt honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.โ
โThis is more than I was expecting when I built it,โ Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. โTell me, what sort of god are you anyway?โ
โIโm of the fallen leaves,โ it said. โThe worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. Iโm a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then itโs gone.โ
The god heaved another sigh. โThereโs no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. Youโre so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.โ
Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. โI like this sort of worship fine,โ he said. โSo if you donโt mind, I think Iโll continue.โ
โDo what you will,โ said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. โBut donโt say I never warned you otherwise.โ
Arepo would say a prayer before the morningโs work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepoโs fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.
โUseless work,โ the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. โThere wasnโt a thing I could do to spare you this.โ
โWeโll be fine,โ Arepo said. โThe stormโs blown over. Weโll rebuild. Donโt have much of an offering for today,โ he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, โbut I think Iโll shore up this thingโs foundations tomorrow, how about that?โย
The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.
A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepoโs neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepoโs field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepoโs ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer.ย
โThere is nothing here for you,โ said the god, hudding in the dark. โThere is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.โ It shivered, and spat out its words. โWhat is this temple but another burden to you?โ
โWe -โ Arepo said, and his voice wavered. โSo itโs a lean year,โ he said. โWeโve gone through this before, weโll get through this again. So weโre hungry,โ he said. โWeโve still got each other, donโt we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didnโt protect them from this. No,โ he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. โNo, I think I like our arrangement fine.โ
โThere will come worse,โ said the god, from the hollows of the stone. โAnd there will be nothing I can do to save you.โ
The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.
And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.
Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.
โI could not save them,โ said the god, its voice a low wail. โI am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.โ The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. โI have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!โ
โShush,โ Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. โTell me,โ he mumbled. โTell me again. What sort of god are you?โ
โI -โ said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepoโs head, and closed its eyes and spoke.
โIโm of the fallen leaves,โ it said, and conjured up the image of them. โThe worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth.โ Arepoโs lips parted in a smile.
โI am the god of a dozen different nothings,โ it said. โThe petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -โ Its voice broke, and it wept. โBefore itโs gone.โ
โBeautiful,โ Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. โAll of them. They were all so beautiful.โ
And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god.
