M
montycrusto
Guest
The God of Filth. (First Crux story), by montycrusto
Gather round, friends and strangers, and come closer to the fire. You all know me, Kalan the Storyteller, that’s what they call me. I may be old and slow, but I have the knowing of a lot of things, and the remembering of things long past. I have been a warrior, and a thief; I have been a poet, and a player of games, a traveller, and a priest. That’s right, my friends, sit down, for I will tell you of a time, before any of you were born…
It was the time of sacrifice, when Tiacal, the God of Filth, must be tempted down from Heaven. Such was the old religion. According to the tales handed down by those who go before us, Great Tiacal flies to his lover, the Goddess of Night, leaving the Earth to die. I and my brother-priests must tempt Him down again with sacrifices, lest our crops fail and our children starve.
A young woman had been found, purchased with a few tusks and flints from travelling bandits. Did I ever tell you about the time I was a bandit? No? Well, never mind. Tomorrow perhaps. This is the tale of that woman, and the sacrifice that was made. And the God that walked the Earth in front of me – as real as this fire-pit. Yes, my friends, I have seen Great Tiacal. Yes. Be still. Let me tell you the manner of it.
The woman had been taken from her homestead, maybe, or captured in the wild open. She was young, but no longer a child. The bandits had not violated her virginity, knowing that we would have her, for a price. I do not know if they used her mouth, or that opening which is sacred to Tiacal. For it is filth that fertilizes our land, and the soil of our bodies reminds us, where we came from, and where we will return. So. The woman was a virgin, as required by our holy tradition.
She was kept naked in the pig-pen, bound hand and foot. We made sure only sows and piglets shared her enclosure; we did not want her virginity to be taken by an amorous boar. To feed herself she was forced to squirm through the muck and ordure, coating herself with the filth befitting a bride of Great Tiacal. I watched her from time to time. She often called to me in a strange tongue, and cried. I did not speak her language, and soon she no longer tried to speak to me. Sometimes, she seemed to listen, as I told her she would soon be with Great Tiacal, and that her sacrifice would bring life to our land. I do not know if she understood my words.
We also watched the heavens, my priest-brothers and I, for the time when the Goddess of Night had eaten half the moon. Then it was propitious, to make sacrifice.
The hewers of wood had performed their task well. Their busy flint axes had carved a living sapling into a smooth pillar, and they had erected next to it the structure they call a cross. A beam of wood points from earth to sky, and a second one from horizon to horizon, showing the places where the fire cauldron rises and sets. A third beam is fixed below it; you shall see the use of it. A ladder had been made, from rope and long branches. Other trees had been cleared, so that the heavens could witness what befell here on Earth.
We brought her forth from the pig-pen, still covered in filth. A pole was placed between her bound limbs, so she could be carried to the cross. She cried out in her strange tongue, but none who watched could understand her words. Her hair was matted and her hide streaked with dung. Only her cheeks showed pink, where her tears washed them. People lined the way, throwing more dirt and garbage over the woman. She screamed at them. It made no difference. To place dung on an offering to Tiacal was an honour, and the people loved to honour their gods in those days.
The woman was untied from her pole, and made to stand between the cross and the sapling. I and my brother priests had the duty of securing her to the cross; we attached long ropes to her wrists and simply pulled her up until she hung from the high cross beam, her arms widely spread, her dung-covered breasts heaving as she panted for breath. We tied her wrists securely. Sometimes she cried and babbled, but other times she would fall silent, as if thinking. She was still naked, though so smeared in filth that one could hardly tell. We had perfomed our duties well.
Then we pulled her hips forward, away from the cross, and pressed the carved top of the sapling against her body, where her legs joined her belly. She screamed as the wood entered her body like a lover would. Her legs were taken back to the cross and lashed to the lower beam, spreading them wide.
She stood as high as she could in her bonds, pulling herself up with her wrists, crying and gasping, but it was not high enough to escape the sapling buried inside her. Soon she sank back in exhaustion, screaming again as the carved wood ploughed deeply into her. Shaking, she struggled to pull herself up again. Blood began to appear at the junction of her thighs, and my priest brothers began their chanting. I too began, but the woman looked at me with an expression I could not fathom, and I fell silent.
I looked up, beseeching Great Tiacal to accept our sacrifice, and return to us, but my eyes kept looking back to the victim, heaving and crying on the cross, the blood pooling at the foot of the sapling. She was now one with the earth; the same tree rooted in her womb and also rooted in the earth, and the earth united with the tree and her womb – The God of Filth was sure to come, to answer this summons, as he always had. The chanting continued, as the woman’s cries became hoarse and ragged and her strength ebbed away.
I thought she had passed on, as she was silent and motionless for a long while. People drifted away, back to their huts. Only I and a few priests remained, hoping to see the God appear, chanting quietly, words of the old language. Suddenly, she stood up bolt upright on the cross, as if struck by lightning; her eyes glassy, but fixed upon me yet again. This was surely the moment. Blood and sweat poured from her, and her mouth opened, as if to speak, but all that came forth was a groan, a noise like that of an animal. Perhaps she was possessed by the God, in that moment. Who can say.
She fell back, impaled and utterly spent, and made no more sound. After a while, my priest brothers and I departed, as the Goddess of Night slipped away and the first light of dawn showed in the east.
But what of the God of Filth, you ask? Did I not see him? Did I not begin my tale by telling you that I had seen Great Tiacal walk the Earth before my very eyes? I saw how your own eyes widened, and sparkled in the firelight, when I told you that. This is what you want to know, is it not?
My friends, whatever I once was, now I am a storyteller. You should not believe what I say, it is all a web of deceit, to beguile the time until sleep claims us. I did not see Tiacal that night, nor any other night. Nor has any other man seen him. I am sure of that. There never was any such being, nor no Goddess of Night, either. These are just stories, my friends. Take it from Kalan, who was once a priest, and is now a storyteller.
But believe me when I say this. I see that woman often. She was real, and still is real, to me, heaving on her bloodied cross, her eyes staring into my soul. If I could go back, I would take her down from the cross, and bathe her wounds, and kiss those eyes.
But that I cannot do.
Gather round, friends and strangers, and come closer to the fire. You all know me, Kalan the Storyteller, that’s what they call me. I may be old and slow, but I have the knowing of a lot of things, and the remembering of things long past. I have been a warrior, and a thief; I have been a poet, and a player of games, a traveller, and a priest. That’s right, my friends, sit down, for I will tell you of a time, before any of you were born…
It was the time of sacrifice, when Tiacal, the God of Filth, must be tempted down from Heaven. Such was the old religion. According to the tales handed down by those who go before us, Great Tiacal flies to his lover, the Goddess of Night, leaving the Earth to die. I and my brother-priests must tempt Him down again with sacrifices, lest our crops fail and our children starve.
A young woman had been found, purchased with a few tusks and flints from travelling bandits. Did I ever tell you about the time I was a bandit? No? Well, never mind. Tomorrow perhaps. This is the tale of that woman, and the sacrifice that was made. And the God that walked the Earth in front of me – as real as this fire-pit. Yes, my friends, I have seen Great Tiacal. Yes. Be still. Let me tell you the manner of it.
The woman had been taken from her homestead, maybe, or captured in the wild open. She was young, but no longer a child. The bandits had not violated her virginity, knowing that we would have her, for a price. I do not know if they used her mouth, or that opening which is sacred to Tiacal. For it is filth that fertilizes our land, and the soil of our bodies reminds us, where we came from, and where we will return. So. The woman was a virgin, as required by our holy tradition.
She was kept naked in the pig-pen, bound hand and foot. We made sure only sows and piglets shared her enclosure; we did not want her virginity to be taken by an amorous boar. To feed herself she was forced to squirm through the muck and ordure, coating herself with the filth befitting a bride of Great Tiacal. I watched her from time to time. She often called to me in a strange tongue, and cried. I did not speak her language, and soon she no longer tried to speak to me. Sometimes, she seemed to listen, as I told her she would soon be with Great Tiacal, and that her sacrifice would bring life to our land. I do not know if she understood my words.
We also watched the heavens, my priest-brothers and I, for the time when the Goddess of Night had eaten half the moon. Then it was propitious, to make sacrifice.
The hewers of wood had performed their task well. Their busy flint axes had carved a living sapling into a smooth pillar, and they had erected next to it the structure they call a cross. A beam of wood points from earth to sky, and a second one from horizon to horizon, showing the places where the fire cauldron rises and sets. A third beam is fixed below it; you shall see the use of it. A ladder had been made, from rope and long branches. Other trees had been cleared, so that the heavens could witness what befell here on Earth.
We brought her forth from the pig-pen, still covered in filth. A pole was placed between her bound limbs, so she could be carried to the cross. She cried out in her strange tongue, but none who watched could understand her words. Her hair was matted and her hide streaked with dung. Only her cheeks showed pink, where her tears washed them. People lined the way, throwing more dirt and garbage over the woman. She screamed at them. It made no difference. To place dung on an offering to Tiacal was an honour, and the people loved to honour their gods in those days.
The woman was untied from her pole, and made to stand between the cross and the sapling. I and my brother priests had the duty of securing her to the cross; we attached long ropes to her wrists and simply pulled her up until she hung from the high cross beam, her arms widely spread, her dung-covered breasts heaving as she panted for breath. We tied her wrists securely. Sometimes she cried and babbled, but other times she would fall silent, as if thinking. She was still naked, though so smeared in filth that one could hardly tell. We had perfomed our duties well.
Then we pulled her hips forward, away from the cross, and pressed the carved top of the sapling against her body, where her legs joined her belly. She screamed as the wood entered her body like a lover would. Her legs were taken back to the cross and lashed to the lower beam, spreading them wide.
She stood as high as she could in her bonds, pulling herself up with her wrists, crying and gasping, but it was not high enough to escape the sapling buried inside her. Soon she sank back in exhaustion, screaming again as the carved wood ploughed deeply into her. Shaking, she struggled to pull herself up again. Blood began to appear at the junction of her thighs, and my priest brothers began their chanting. I too began, but the woman looked at me with an expression I could not fathom, and I fell silent.
I looked up, beseeching Great Tiacal to accept our sacrifice, and return to us, but my eyes kept looking back to the victim, heaving and crying on the cross, the blood pooling at the foot of the sapling. She was now one with the earth; the same tree rooted in her womb and also rooted in the earth, and the earth united with the tree and her womb – The God of Filth was sure to come, to answer this summons, as he always had. The chanting continued, as the woman’s cries became hoarse and ragged and her strength ebbed away.
I thought she had passed on, as she was silent and motionless for a long while. People drifted away, back to their huts. Only I and a few priests remained, hoping to see the God appear, chanting quietly, words of the old language. Suddenly, she stood up bolt upright on the cross, as if struck by lightning; her eyes glassy, but fixed upon me yet again. This was surely the moment. Blood and sweat poured from her, and her mouth opened, as if to speak, but all that came forth was a groan, a noise like that of an animal. Perhaps she was possessed by the God, in that moment. Who can say.
She fell back, impaled and utterly spent, and made no more sound. After a while, my priest brothers and I departed, as the Goddess of Night slipped away and the first light of dawn showed in the east.
But what of the God of Filth, you ask? Did I not see him? Did I not begin my tale by telling you that I had seen Great Tiacal walk the Earth before my very eyes? I saw how your own eyes widened, and sparkled in the firelight, when I told you that. This is what you want to know, is it not?
My friends, whatever I once was, now I am a storyteller. You should not believe what I say, it is all a web of deceit, to beguile the time until sleep claims us. I did not see Tiacal that night, nor any other night. Nor has any other man seen him. I am sure of that. There never was any such being, nor no Goddess of Night, either. These are just stories, my friends. Take it from Kalan, who was once a priest, and is now a storyteller.
But believe me when I say this. I see that woman often. She was real, and still is real, to me, heaving on her bloodied cross, her eyes staring into my soul. If I could go back, I would take her down from the cross, and bathe her wounds, and kiss those eyes.
But that I cannot do.
.....at least that's what I've heard.
