Yesterday I was one god swamped by a pantheon. Our clay
children pined for justice while imagining us wielding it behind the stars. Locked
away behind the purple satin of the night I was captive to the gaze of those
moulded crudely in my shape. They told their children stories about us, first
of all thankful, then as generations rose and fell they became doubtful. As we
failed to intervene we built up squat huts of recrimination with bricks of
murder and accident. Endless death gave them hunger, and their knowledge of our
creation helped them to realise, in their eager briefness, that the gods prized
them as mere trembling moments of toil. Surer than any weapon, their disbelief
weakened us.
Today I left that behind, for I cast myself out and let my
godhood burn from me in a falling star’s trail. Now I look up seldom. Neither do
I look over my shoulder, for I know what is coming: but at least I can now tell
my children I love them.