The Shrine at the Edge of the World
Quiet falls on the shrine at the edge of the world.
Time passes of its own accord here; there is no way to gauge its passage in the endless twilight.
Settling on that smooth rock in the centre of the clearing, he takes in one deep breath. The air is thinner up here, lighter, clearer. It’s a crisp alpine cold that nips at his bare arms, but he doesn’t feel it. Her warmth buoys him; Her smile sustains him.
The silence is complete.
He’d spent some time sweeping the little rocky path to Her shrine earlier, clearing away fallen snow and frozen leaves between the obstacles. It’s not that the others neglected Her; he just likes to have a clear space when he comes to see Her. A small part of him likes to think She’s watching somewhere, that She appreciates these small gestures.
Before Her, offerings lay neatly in woven baskets: burnt incense, dried flowers with crushed petals, petty coins and carved idols and knickknacks and scrolls in scattered heaps. He gazes up at Her, with Her upturned face studying that horizon for sights unseen, Her faithful owl peering down from Her shoulder. A light blanket of crystalline flakes dust them both, like sugar.
“Please, Goddess.” He clasps his hands together, bowing his head over them. “Please.”
And so he prays.
It’s a curious thing, praying to the Goddess. It’s quite unlike anything he has done before. He isn’t a religious man, has never really been driven to follow a deity before. When he first found himself at this place, the others had shown him the way: go to the shrine. Present your gift. Sit on the rock. Clear your mind. She will show Herself to you when you are ready.
His gift this time is a handful of gold coins. Almost the last of what he has in the world. He didn’t have much else to give, didn’t know what he’d do if She doesn’t -
But he pushes that thought aside, tries to empty his mind, ignores the biting cold, the itch in his big toe. He is here to hear Her call.
And so he waits.
Emptying his mind is no small feat. It requires a patience that doesn’t come naturally to him, a quieting of the consciousness that seems to be at odds with his whole reason for seeking Her.
And yet here he stands, laying his soul bare before Her.
Waiting for… anything.
It could take minutes. It could take hours. It varies from person to person. Some barely step foot into the shrine when they hear Her words. Others are found later — their skin pallid and like ice, their eyes seeing nothing and everything.
The rush of words that tumble from their lips frantic and divine.
It didn’t matter that he hadn’t heard Her for himself yet. He knows his own time will come, knows that it will be today, on this day, that he will hear Her for himself. Seeing that soft curve of Her stone cheek, he knows today is the day he will be granted access to something bigger, something grander than him, everything he worked for will come to fruition on this very day, at this very spot.
He can’t feel his fingers.
He grits his teeth.
It’s fine, he thinks, slowly rubbing his hands up and down his thighs, trying to get the blood circulating in them again, any second now, I’ll hear Her. She will speak.
He begins to count the seconds in his head.
They turn into minutes.
He loses track, tries to start again, but his stomach rumbles and he throws his arms up in frustration.
“What more do you want?”
He thrusts his numb hands into his pockets, his fingers brushing against the cold metal ring — the last of what he owns in the world — and tosses it down before Her. The amethyst stone sparks like a purple fire among the assorted trash others had offered Her.
“There, are you happy now? I’ve given you everything! Everything!”
He’s standing now, yelling at her still facade. The ring had been his mother’s, should have been a gift for the woman he would one day marry. It’s worth it. Surely it will be worth it.
And yet still there is no answer from the statue; no answer from the shrine, from the heavens above. There is only quiet within the still, frozen garden, quiet but for the heaving of his chest, his hot breath turning to mist when it touches the frigid air.
She stares ever forward, Her dark stony eyes full of mysteries he will never know. A sardonic smile twists the edges of her lips.
That smile.
That smile he thought was so beautiful, so enchanting, so devastating.
It’s the smile that makes him snap.
With a roar, he kicks the baskets filled with the offerings. His fist comes down, knocking over the black candles mounted on the stone snakes coiled by Her legs, dashing away the scrolls heaped around Her. He tries to push over one of the giant owl statues that stand guard by Her. Snow is swept up in a flurry, until he collapses in a heap next to the unmoving marble.
It looms over him, its long face stern.
His knuckles are bleeding, but he doesn’t remember cutting them. He glares back up at the owl, sees the blood smeared across its face and beak, and sneers at it. It leers back.
“Fine.” He pushes himself to his feet, gathers up his mother’s ring and the gold he’d offered. “Fine! I don’t care. I never wanted to hear your stupid voice anyway!”
Before he can change his mind, he’s marching past the rock in the middle of the clearing, marching away from Her statue with her owls and her snakes watching him with their baleful eyes, and he’s marching away from the shrine at the end of the world.
And as he takes that step just beyond the edge of the shrine, he doesn’t see it happen, it’s far too fast for him. The world he knows is suddenly a world of light and noise and electrifying pain, and that is all he will know evermore.
When the next one comes up to pray to Her, she finds him: a blackened, twisted corpse, still steaming in the snow. She shakes her head, though she’s hardly surprised.
“You weren’t worthy.”
She kicks some snow over the carcass, then picks her way through the other remains that litter the path to the shrine. She’s never been here before, but it doesn’t matter.
She can hear Her calling.
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