"Wanted: God. Apply In Person" by Garon E. Whited

“God was dead.  They needed a new God in a hurry.”

James Palmer leaned back in his chair and looked out his window.  The nighttime bustle of the city always stimulated his thoughts.  Thousands upon thousands of people going about their lives, bustling from place to place on errands ranging from the mundane to the mad.  It was his inspiration. 

He re-read the scribbled words and considered that single sentence.  A good start to a story, he thought.  Grabs the reader right off.  Now, where do I go with it?

James chewed on his pencil for a moment, then leaned forward to write.

“Corym, Lord of Hidden Things, listened to the bickering of the gods,” he scratched.

Veltin, Lord of Storms, blustered and thundered, claiming that he should be God by right of strength.  Seleya, Lady of Mothers, disagreed, claiming the right of rulership by her loving, nurturing power.  Elantha, Lady of Pleasures, did not claim the title of God, yet she encouraged others to offer it.  Baran, the Warlord, might have agreed with her, had not his own lust for victory blinded him to her charms.  Even Harad, the impartial Lord of Judges, stroked his well-groomed chin and considered the temptations of power.

Yet Corym remained silent, listening and watching.  He was not God material and he knew it.  Nor were the rest of his brethren.  Veltin shouted, Seleya mothered, Elantha —well, Elantha! And the others only squabbled, bickered, and fought amongst themselves.  None of them were fit to rule both men and gods.  None were capable of seeing much past his or her own domain.  Veltyn viewed all the world as a potential storm; his answer to any problem was a thunderbolt.  Seleya would scold, even spank, but rule?  Never.  Elantha would destroy the world in hedonistic pleasures.  And Baran!  Bloodshed was all that he knew.  Rivers would run with it, fields would burn, and the oceans themselves would give forth crimson-foamed waves.

No.

Good, good, good, James thought.  We need a ruler for the gods, we have some sample gods, and we have a protagonist in Corym.  I wonder what the Lord of Hidden Things is like?  Dark hair, probably.  A whole motif, a theme on darkness.  Where else do things get hidden?  Probably a swarthy, quick-looking man, thin and wiry.  Very fast on his feet.  A lot of hidden things want to stay that way.

James scribbled on:

Corym slipped away from the great amphitheatre of Zera, home of the gods.  Those hundreds of gods would argue, fuss, and jabber until Time itself wore thin.  The lesser gods would unite behind their patron deities and the arguing would grow more heated.  The debate would turn to insults and gods would stalk off in divine rage.  In a decade or a century, the lure of Godhood would draw them back—or the fear an adversary would claim the Golden Throne.  In the meantime, nothing would happen.  Zera would be without a ruler.

That was not acceptable.  Something must be done.

If Corym could not be King of the gods—he could not, and did not wish to be—then perhaps he might prove his worth in another way… If the gods of this place were not fit to be God, then another place—one, out of an infinite range of places—should have, must have a being worthy in all respects of the Godhood.

Corym stepped out of the lands of light and into his own realm, into the shadows where the hidden things dwell.  He moved deeper than ever before into the blackness of that which cannot be seen, passing through the depths of nothingness to search beyond the world for what must exist, for what he must find.

Ah, yes.  Good.  We have a hook, a little exposition, some unanswered questions, a good protagonist, and a quest.  Excellent start.  Maybe a little rough around the edges on the language, but I can clean that up later, James thought.

He glanced at the clock and blinked.  Was it really that late?  Yawning, he put his pencil inside the notebook before staggering to his bed.  He dropped to the mattress, asleep almost as he hit, to dream of bickering gods and a lonely quest.

*   *   *

James woke with a feeling.  The feeling that someone was in his apartment.  No, in his bedroom; someone close by.  The familiar creak of his chair brought a rush of fear, then drowned it in anger.  Someone had managed to sneak into his apartment, look around, and was now sitting in his favorite chair!

James sat up, grabbed the five-iron by the bedside, and slapped the wall switch.  Light blazed from the overhead fixture.

Under the sudden glare, a dark-haired man—swarthy, thin, and supple as a blade—lifted one arm to shield his eyes.  He was dressed in black velvet and grey silk, and wore a ring with a gemstone that gleamed like the eye of a cat.  He did not appear to have a gun, but he wore a dagger at his belt, the hilt made from some strangely-curling horn.

“Forbear, great lord,” said the man.  “I did not wish to disturb your rest, but waited upon your pleasure to awaken.  Please, I beg you, hear what I have come to say!”

James kept the golf club poised.  “Make it fast,” he growled, “or I’ll use your hair for a fairway!”

“I am Corym, Lord of Hidden Things.  I have come across the endless wastes of emptiness, past uncreated realms where the nothingness weeps in silence.  I have come seeking one who might rule the gods of proud Zera.  I have come seeking you.”

Corym moved from the chair and knelt, bowing his head.  James stared at him for long seconds, blinking owlishly and thinking.  This has got to be a dream.  Has to be.  I’m asleep and dreaming a dream of such hubris that I’m probably going to Hell for it.  I’m asleep and talking with a character in my latest story.  No more anchovies and mustard for me!

But the pounding of his heart denied dreaming.  The dampness of his grip, the dryness in his mouth was not a dream.  He was awake, terribly so, and recovering from the fright of an unexpected stranger in his bedroom.  James swung his feet out of bed and sat on the edge, staring at the bowed head.

“Okay, I’ll bite.  How did you come to pick me?”

“I am Lord of the Hidden Things.  None of the gods of proud Zera knew where to find a God—none would even consider another but one of themselves.  Since none of us are worthy of Godhood, God must be found.  I find that which is lost; that is my realm, my responsibility.  And so I have found you, Lord.”

James thought crazily of who could have thrown together a costume and hired a guy for a joke like this.  But the story was only a story, barely even started—not even an idea until a few hours ago.  It was impossible, either way.  And no thief dressed like some escapee from a renaissance fair.

“Okay, Corym.  Fine.  If you’re lord of hidden things, where’s the watch I lost when I went on vacation to D.C.?”

“I do not know what a ‘watch’ is, but the device you have identified is in a peculiar chest full of drawers and clothes.”  Corym pointed.  “That way, nearly four hundred leagues.”

James smirked.  “Right.  And my Aunt Sarah’s false teeth are right next to it.”

“I do not understand.  There are no teeth beside it.  There are only garments.”

“Look, you’re fast on your mental feet, but I don’t believe you, okay?  Anybody could have just spouted off a place and pointed in the general direction of D.C.  How do I know you’re right?  Hmm?”

Corym looked thoughtful for a moment, then flourished his hand.  It held a watch.

James accepted the watch and looked it over.  It looked like his watch.  It fit like his watch.  The band was the same faded black, the face had that scratch from twelve to three o’clock. 

“Oh my god.”

“Aye,” Corym replied, bowing again, “for as long as you will have me, Lord.”

James swallowed heavily.  “Okay.  Right.  Okay… look, can you please stop with the bowing and the kneeling and the ‘my lording’ at me?”

“As you wish.  By what title shall I address you?”

“Call me ‘James’.  Now, have a seat.  No, on second thought, come with me.  I don’t care who you are; this is weird enough that it calls for a drink.”  He got up and belted on his robe.  “The way I see it, if you’re a figment of my imagination, anything you drink I’m actually drinking.  So I’ll have a couple of beers and figure this out.”

Corym followed, not entirely comprehending.  James went into the kitchenette, got a couple of bottles from the fridge, handed one to Corym.  Corym watched James open one, then copied the movement.  They sat on stools on opposite sides of the kitchen counter and looked at each other.  James took a swig from his bottle.  Corym tried the beer.  It wasn’t the nectar of the gods, but it wasn’t half bad.

“All right,” James said.  “You’re a god and you’re looking for someone to be the ruler of the gods.  I got that part.  What, exactly, does that mean?”

“Why, to be God, of course!”  Corym looked amazed.  The question was preposterous.

James ran a hand through his own hair and sighed.

“Let’s try this again.  Suppose you were taking out an ad in the paper, advertising a job opening.  How would you describe the position?”

“Ad?” the god asked.  “Paper?”

“This is going to be harder than I thought,” James muttered.  “Oooo-kay.  Let’s try this again.  Pretend—just pretend with me—that I want to explain this job to, say… a mortal.  Some average guy we just picked out and decided was going to be made to understand how tough it is to be God.  How would you go about it?”

 “I… Hmm.”  Corym pondered for a long moment.  “I think I would begin with an apprendi.  Yes.  Then, once I had his attention—”

“Back up a second.  What’s an apprendi?”

“I do not know what you call it.  It is when you find a mortal you wish to have and you pluck him—or her—from the surface of the world.  Usually to place them in your home, somewhere.”

“Oh.  Right.  Go on.”

“Once I had the person safely tucked away, I would reveal myself as the Shadowed Lord, God of the Hidden Things.  That is good for undivided attention and a sincere desire to do anything requested.”

James took a bigger swallow of his beer.  “Yeah, I bet it is.  Let’s just skip that part, shall we?  Just explain what God does, all right?”

Corym marshaled his thoughts.  It had never occurred to him to try and explain the duties of God.  God just… did them.  God ruled the City of the Gods.  God was the King of the gods.  God was… God.

“I am not entirely certain,” Corym admitted.

“Beg pardon?”

“I… I do not know exactly.  God ruled the other gods.  But… I am at a loss to explain precisely how He did so.  God just… was.”  Corym toyed with the beer bottle, embarrassed.

“I thought you were the Lord of Hidden Things?” James asked.

Corym blushed.  “Well, yes,” he admitted.  “I am.  But you must understand, my authority over hidden things does not extend to things He wished to hide.  His authority was absolute.”

“Gotcha.  All right, so we don’t know exactly what the job of God entails.  What sort of things did you see God do?  I mean, there was a real, physical guy there, right?”

“Oh, certainly,” Corym agreed.  “God was a handsome figure—magnificent, really.  Broad of shoulder, high-browed, with powerful hands and clear, piercing eyes.  He would often be at the side of a pool, enjoying the sunshine—it is never cloudy over the peak of Zera, unless He wished it so.  Rarely, He would call up a rain and enjoy being rained on; I remember that.  He would eat little tidbits all day long, too—a grape here, a sweetmeat there, and never sat to table for a meal.”  Corym thought more, casting back in his memory for examples of Godly behavior.

“I recall that He often watched mortals from the Tower of Sight.  They seemed to amuse Him.  He would pick out a single mortal and simply observe for days, weeks—sometimes even years.  At least, I think He only observed.  He may have manipulated, as well.”  Corym shrugged.  “I have no way of knowing.”

“Because he was God, right?”

“Correct.  That is why we lesser gods are unworthy.  None of us understands how God works.”

“In mysterious ways,” James muttered.

Corym’s face lit up.  “Indeed!  Indeed!  I knew You would understand, Lord.”

James rubbed a hand over his brow and finished his beer.  “Drink up,” he advised.  “This is going to take a while, and I’m not nearly drunk enough for this.”

*   *   *

Corym opened bloodshot eyes.  The gentle, golden light of Zera’s morning slanted through the leafy boughs of the Hidden Garden.  Instead of lifting Corym’s spirits, the light stabbed viciously into his head.  The god groaned and threw an arm over his eyes.

James sat up at the sound and held his head for a moment.  The hangover was bad, no doubt about that.  From beer, they had moved on to single-malt Scotch—not that such a thing is ever a mistake, but he really shouldn’t have had all that beer first.

He lifted his head and looked around.  The Hidden Garden was brightly lit by a sunshine that seemed, somehow, too golden.  Early-morning dew still glittered on flowers and leaves.  The canopy of leaves and branches  was thin, allowing shifting shafts of sunlight to make rippling patterns on the grass.

The pair of miserable gentlemen—God and the god—were under the shadowed sweep of a gazebo-like structure.  The structure seemed more grown than built, as though someone had sheared off a great tree close to the ground, and that stump had grown a rail and roof.  There were two low couches and a number of cushions, all patterned in silk and velvet.  James sat up on his; Corym still lay asprawl on the other.

“Corym?” James asked.  The only answer was a low, miserable moan.  James grimaced and got slowly to his feet.  “Come on, Corym.  It’s just a hangover.”

“Lord, Lord,” Corym asked, “what have I done to be so deserving of such punishment?”

“You drank as much as I did and you haven’t had my practice at it.  Come on; we need some water, breakfast, and aspirin.  A few vitamins wouldn’t hurt, either.”

Corym groaned in agony and turned over, drawing a pillow up over his head to block out the lancing pain of the bright sunlight.  James sighed.

“Look, Corym; this is your place—it sure as heck isn’t mine.  You know where the medicine cabinet is.  Work with me here.”

Corym’s reply was lost in the muffling of the pillow, but he waved a hand, weakly.  A low chime, like a great, glass bell, sounded through the garden.  Moments later, a pair of beautiful, sensuous women appeared as they approached the gazebo.  They seemed to be very much alike, save for their hair; both wore their hair in a long braid down the back, but while one had hair the color of chestnuts, the other was blonde so bright as to be almost white.  They ascended the three steps and knelt before Corym’s couch and before James.

Corym muttered something inaudible into the pillow.  They glanced at each other, concerned.

“Ladies?” James asked.  They bowed their heads toward him and looked at the floor.  James stared at them for a moment.  They were worth staring at, and both were dressed for warm weather—i.e., hardly.  What they did wear was light, gauzy, and sheer, with a tendency to press close or ripple in the slightest breeze.

“Ladies?” he repeated.  “Hello?”

They glanced at each other covertly and blonde gave the smallest shrug possible.  The one with the chestnut hair lifted her head slightly, still without really looking up.

“How may we serve you, noble sir?”

“Aspirin.  Water.  Vitamins.  Bananas and strawberries.  Breakfast to go with all that,” James answered.  He seated himself on his couch again.  The throbbing in his eyeballs made the world seem to pulse.

“Noble sir… we do not know these ‘asprin’ and ‘vight-amens.’”

“Ah.  Right.  Okay.  Just… just the food and water, please.”  The ladies rose smoothly from their kneeling position, backed to the edge of the gazebo, and turned to go.  James watched them for a moment, then reclined on the couch to rub his eyes with the heels of his hands.

“Corym?”

Corym muttered something and groaned again.

“I realize this is probably your first hangover, but I have to ask… Where are we?”

Corym lifted the pillow enough to answer.  “Zera.  In my garden.”

“So, we’re on a mountaintop?”

“Yes.”

“The home of the gods?”

“Yes.”

“Where I’m supposed to be king of the gods?”

“Yes.”

James thought for a moment.

“So, where’s the bathroom?”

There’s something to be said for fruit so fresh the plant is still surprised it’s gone.  The water was on the same order; it seemed so clear that it was like drinking air.  The goblets, apparently carved whole from some great crystals, struck James as being a trifle ostentatious, but Corym was, by his own admission, a god.  And if some of the fruits were unrecognizable, what of that?  This wasn’t the Earth to which James was accustomed.  They smelled good and they tasted better.  James started on those and persueded Corym to eat a little.

The greenish god tried a bite or two and collapsed back on his couch.  James put an odd-looking fruit back on the low table the ladies had placed between the couches.

“Nay, Lord, I beg of you.  This agony is too great.”

“Wuss,” James accused.  “This wouldn’t be so bad if you’d just listened to me.  Did I tell you to lay off the Wild Turkey?  Yes.  Did you drink it anyway?  Yes.  And you had to have a Silver Fizz—vodka and whiskey aren’t supposed to be mixed.”

The only answer was a groan.

“Look, you’re the Lord of Hidden Things.  That includes lost things, right?”

“Yes.”

“Great.  Someone has to have lost a bottle of aspirin.  Find it.”

Corym waved a hand, a trifle clumsily, but held out a bottle.  James took it, shook out three, and gulped them down.  He shook out three more and prodded Corym to sit up.

“Swallow them whole; don’t chew.  Wash them down.”  James proffered one of the crystal goblets and Corym managed to obey.  “Drink more water,” James advised.  “Now, you never did tell me where the bathroom is.”

“A bathing-pool is that way, beyond a screen of vines,” Corym replied.

“No, I mean a toilet.  A commode.  A latrine.  A place to go potty.”

“I do not understand.”

James slapped his own forehead and drew the hand down over his face.

“Right.  Okay.  You’re a god.  Gods don’t go to the little deities’ room?”

“The what?”

“This is going to be a long, long morning,” James muttered.  “Let me try this again.  You watch humans once in a while, right?”

“Yes.”

“They do a lot of things the gods don’t do?”

“Many of their habits are beneath us.”

“Such as?”

“They constantly shed skin.  Their hair grows and turns grey, or it falls out—”

“Hold it.  I’m thinking more on a day-to-day basis.  They have to go eliminate wastes, right?”

“Oh.  Yes.”

“Good, we’re making progress.  If you had a human here, how would you handle that sort of thing?”

Corym lifted his arm from his eyes and blinked blearily up at James.  His expression was puzzled.

“Why would I have a human in my garden?  They have dirty habits.  That is one of them.”

“Humor me, Corym.”

“I suppose I should have to find a hidden place where such things are done.”

“Okay.  How long would that take?”

Corym looked distant for a moment.  “I have done so.”

“Great.  Can you take me there?”

“Why go there?  It is now here.”  Corym nodded toward a space between two trees.  Beyond it, there was a gleam of tile.  The space between the trees seemed to be more of a doorway than a space.  The trees were almost doorposts.  But no sign of the semi-present room could be seen in to open areas to either side.

“Well done.  Pardon me while I go make use of it.”  James sauntered off to the bathroom while Corym tentatively nibbled at breakfast.

Later, feeling much refreshed, James rejoined the Lord of Hidden Things and First God of Hangovers.  Corym opened the conversation while James started on breakfast again.

“Lord, if I may… why do you… what purpose does it serve to… to…” Corym trailed off and just gestured at the semi-present bathroom.

“It’s a human thing,” James answered.  “It’s always nice to have a feel for the creatures you’re fooling with.  It helps to understand them.”

“What is there to understand?” Corym asked, puzzled.  “They are dirty, uncivilized, and stupid.  They are better than animals only in that they can venerate us.”

James smiled coldly.  “Perhaps they’re more capable than you think.”

Corym shrugged.  “If that is so, then I have not seen it.  Now may I be freed of this gritty sensation surrounding my eyes?”

“It goes away after a while,” James assured him.  “A hot bath will probably help.”

“Then I shall indulge myself immediately.  With your pardon, Lord?”

“Yes, of course.  Get going.  I’ll wait here.  –Oh, and send back somebody, please; I have some things I want.”

“As you wish, Lord.”  Corym rose, a trifle unsteadily, and walked away from the gazebo.  Almost before he reached the grassy turf, a trio of beautiful women came into view; both the chestnut-haired beauty and the blonde moved to help support and guide their god.  The third, with hair as black as pitch, bowed low to her god and turned to approach James.  There she knelt and bowed her head.

James, seated on the same couch on which he had woken, tossed something resembling a grape at her.  Startled, she glanced up and met his eyes.  Her eyes were black, blacker than her hair.  So deep and dark, in fact, that James thought to himself that she must be a dream, a figment of his imagination.  She couldn’t really exist.

She rippled, like a reflection in water, and a horrified look fled across her face.

And she was gone.

James stared at the empty spot for a moment, dumbfounded.  He dropped the rest of the grapes, unheeded.  He stood and circled the low table to wave a hand through the place she had been.  His fingers met only air, empty and unresisting.

“Oh, my God,” he murmured.  “Where did she go?”  He rose and turned in a circle, scanned all around the gazebo, looked for her in every direction.  Nothing.  No one.  He was alone.

“Corym!” he shouted.  “Where are you?”

The blonde came quickly, obviously hurrying.  She dashed up to the gazebo steps and knelt before James.

“Lord, my god has bid me come with all speed in answer to your summons.”

“Lead me to Corym,” James directed.  She rose, panting slightly, and walked before him through the woods.  As they walked, James noticed that the woods was somehow wrong; it had many paths, mostly hidden, as though it were a place constructed.  It was too perfectly laid out and too intricately arranged to be natural.  Then again, it was the garden of the Lord of Hidden Things… perhaps that wasn’t so surprising, he reflected.

Corym was half-submerged in a stony pool.  Steam rose from the water as he lounged and allowed the other woman to pour water through his hair.

“My Lord,” he said, “forgive me, please, for not coming at your summons.  Your suggestion of the hot bath is working, and I hoped that it might achieve its full effect.”

“No problem.  Corym, what the hell happened to the dark-haired servant girl?”

Corym opened his eyes and glanced at the one pouring water through his hair.  “She is unchanged,” he remarked.

“No, no.  Not her.  The one with the black hair.”

“I have no such.”

“But you did.  The one that stayed with me while these two took you to this bath.  She disappeared suddenly.  What happened?”

Corym looked puzzled.  He held up a hand and the woman stopped her ministrations.  He sat up.

“My Lord, I swear to you, I know not of any such woman.  I have Tessa,” he nodded at the blonde, “and Elisma.  No others.  It has been so for a century or more.”

“Then who was that woman?” James demanded.

“I know not, my Lord.  I know nothing of any such within the Hidden Garden.  Will you tell me of what you speak?”

James did so, trying to relate the events in as much detail as possible.  When he reached the part about thinking her a dream or figment, Corym sat up sharply.

“My Lord!  Did she so offend that you must erase her very existence?”

“I didn’t to anything!” James protested.  “I was startled at her eyes.  She didn’t offend me at all; I thought she was incredibly beautiful.  I wish she hadn’t vanished!”

Corym shook his head, slowly.  “My Lord—”

“And stop calling me that!  Call me ‘James’!”

Corym flinched, slightly.  With a look and a gesture, he dismissed Tessa and Elisma.  Once they were gone, he sat up more comfortably for a conversation.

“As you wish.  James, it is given to each of the gods of Zera to hold dominion over some piece of the whole.  In the tapestry of the world, if you will, each of us has a few threads, perhaps a color, which we master and own.  The threads that run behind the others, these are mine—although the metaphor of the cloth is woefully inadequate for such a complex relationship.

“But God, the Lord of Zera, controls not mere threads and colors, but the whole design of the tapestry.  If You say that one has no place in that design, then that one ceases to be.  If Your design includes that which has never before been, it will come to be.  The other gods may bend and twist and weave their threads and colors as they will, alone or in combination, but the grand design—that is Yours.”