A Wild Divinity Read online

  Month 2020 Volume 10 No 9

  A Wild Divinity

  by

  Rebecca Schneider

  My God Falls in Love with Me

  As with other unwanted attentions, it happens when I’m thinking of something else entirely.

  I am in the western chapel, reciting the evening prayers. I kneel on a prayer cushion, hands clasped against my forehead in worship.

  As I repeat the holy syllogisms, my thoughts wander. I consider the tiled floor with its hexagons of blue and white. The blue tiles meet in groups of three, but the white tiles do not touch. I try to recall the significance of the pattern. Hexagons are more sacred than triangles, I know that. They are more perfect representations of the infinite.

  The setting sun flashes through the window. A scent like lavender fills the air. My lips form the last syllables of the last prayer, the words only breath.

  The slanting light takes on a blue-gray cast, and a man appears before me.

  I jump to my feet with a noise like a startled mouse. The figure is identical to one I’ve seen in murals: a slender person with brown skin a few shades darker than my own, wide-set eyes, blood red robes, and a fall of sleek black hair.

  My god gazes at me, His eyes intense and unreadable. In one fluid motion, He closes the space between us, pulls the scarf from my head, and pushes His face into my hair.

  “What are you doing?” I cry, stumbling back.

  For fifteen years I have been a devotee, cloistered from the company of men, but my god’s expression is unmistakable. He regards me with hunger, as if He wants to devour me whole.

  I scream and run from the chapel.

  My god appears in the evenings mostly, during prayers or at supper. The quality of the light changes, a scent like lavender fills the air, and He appears. He says nothing, but watches me in silence, sometimes smiling as if we’re sharing a secret.

  Devotees of my god are not prone to mystical visions, and of course this particular vision is sacrilege. I would be thought mad, or a liar. So I tell no one.

  One night I wake to the floral scent and a silver light. My god sits at the foot of my bed, haloed in moonlight. He has plainly been watching me sleep.

  “Oh, please go away,” I exclaim.

  My god reaches a hand across the bedclothes toward me.

  I back away, pulling my knees to my chest. “You are the Master of Wisdom.” I lower my voice to a whisper, mindful of thin walls. “You teach order and obedience and the life of the mind. And when I vowed devotion to you, you know perfectly well I did not mean this.”

  My god smiles. He bends forward to pull back the bedcovers.

  I throw the pillow at Him.

  He vanishes, but the scent of Him hangs in the air until morning.

  ***

  He does not visit me again at night. Nevertheless I sleep poorly, and take to getting dressed beneath my bedclothes.

  One morning, the Devoted Jacanda and I sit on the covered porch, solving equations for the district architect. It is a hot day at the end of summer, and we are sharing a pitcher of orange-blossom water.

  “Who do you suppose painted our murals of the Holy One?” I ask in what I hope is an offhand manner. “As I was meditating this morning, it occurred to me to wonder if the likeness is correct.”

  The Devoted Jacanda gives me a strange look. Lately she’s shown concern for my absentminded silences. “It was the Devoted Helela who decorated the temple. You know, the woman who painted that unfortunate portrait of Prince Ufa in the Rain Palace.”

  “I have never understood the murals,” I continue. “Surely our god prefers to reveal Himself in geometric splendor, not in human visage.”

  The Devoted Jacanda rearranges her calculating rods. “The Devoted Helela lived a long time ago. In matters of doctrine, she may have been rather primitive. You see similar portraits in other temples of antiquity, and of course we think of them as portraying our Master, but no doubt the likeness is only a folk custom.” She frowns at me. “Have you developed an interest in art?”

  No, I’m being pursued by an amorous phantom who is the living picture of our god. “I was wondering if representational art could truly be sacred,” I say. “Perhaps there is a hidden pattern in the composition, or in the choice of colors.”

  “I doubt it,” the Devoted Jacanda says. “I don’t believe the Devoted Helela was mathematical. None of her figures are in proportion.”

  That night as I lie awake in bed, despair settles on me like a heavy blanket. If the Devoted Helela was not gifted in the sciences of my god, was there another reason she devoted herself? Did my god show Himself to her, and to the women who painted His image at other temples? Did they welcome these visions?

  Am I wrong to resist?

  ***

  My god behaves worst when He finds me alone. I avoid solitude, but it isn’t always easy. One day before evening prayers, I enter the bathhouse and find I am alone.

  Rain drums on the tile roof, the prelude to our first autumn storm. It seems that no one else fancied bathing in such weather. I set my towel by the door and consider what to do. I’m supposed to purify myself before I enter the western chapel, and whatever my present feelings about my god, I’m not prepared to break sacred custom.

  Steam rises invitingly from the sunken bath. Suddenly I no longer care. If He wants to watch me bathe, what can I do about it? I pull off my scarf and robe, slip off my sandals, and lower myself into the water.

  The bathwater warms my chilled skin. I let out a long breath, close my eyes, and begin to lather my skin with soap.

  I hear a dripping sound, and notice an odor mingling with the scents of olive oil soap and rain. My eyes open.

  The aging bathhouse roof has sprung a leak. A small waterfall spatters against the tile floor, and my god is standing in front of the water. He is naked, slender-hipped as a boy, His chest and groin thatched with dark hair. The image is grotesque, religious pornography. I feel nauseated.

  “Go away!” I shout. Still clutching the soap, I shield my body with my hands.

  The scent of Him turns musky. The air shimmers, and a viscous rain starts to fall inside the bathhouse, fat raindrops like milky gold.

  I flee.

  ***

  Half a dozen devotees are treated to the spectacle of a naked woman running through the rain-swept temple grounds. I spare no thought for their discomfort. I may be a Devotee of the Master of Wisdom, but as a child I heard my share of folk stories. When a god envelops a virgin in a golden rain, there is no question of what happens next.

  In my room, I towel off my body with shaking hands until I no longer smell like Him. I pull on a robe but no scarf, slip on sandals, and fill a satchel with my few possessions.

  A knock comes at the door. “Nassa, are you in there?”

  I open the door. The Devoted Jacanda’s expression is plain astonishment. Gray hair is escaping her scarf. “What are you doing?”

  I don’t meet her gaze. “Please let me pass.”

  “But something’s happened to you!” The Devoted Jacanda touches my shoulder. “Whatever it is, let me help.”

  I want so badly to tell her, but how can I? My shame weighs on me like a stone. No one will believe me. They will think this is some sick fantasy.

  “I’m sorry,” I mutter, and push past her. In the hallway I begin to run.

  The Devoted Jacanda calls my name, but I only increase my pace. I run out of the dormitory, speed across the terraced garden, and take a flying leap from a stone bench to launch myself over the low wall.

  I fall unceremoniously into something large and brushy.

  I clamber to my feet, pulling damp leaves from my hair. I am standing in the street outside the temple. It’s coming on evening, and the
rain hasn’t slackened. Myrtle bushes line the wall behind me. Across from them is a thorny hedge wall belonging to the Garden God’s temple.

  I don’t know the city well, but this must be Little God Street. If I walk uphill, I’ll come to the gate of the Patrician’s palace. Downhill is the rest of the Gods Quarter and, below that, the river market.

  Arms folded, I consider my options. Taking refuge in a neighboring temple is the obvious choice, preferably one whose god has no love for my own. But when I think of what god that might be, dread fills me.

  I have no better idea, so I begin to walk. Past the clay wall of the Creator God’s temple and the basket-weave fence of the Mother Goddess’s temple, I come to a bright blue plaster wall. It’s covered with embossed gold circles and topped with gold protuberances like spiky phalluses.

  I round the corner and stop before an arched entrance. I reflexively begin a prayer before remembering that I have no god to petition. My fate is in my own hands.

  As I step through the arch, I feel certain I am making a terrible mistake.

  ***

  The courtyard of the temple is not so different from that of my own: tiled paths, pomegranate trees, a silver fountain in the shape of a dolphin. Across the lawn is a building with white stucco walls and a golden roof.

  I walk up to the entrance. Instead of a door, there is a heavy crimson curtain. The fabric smells like perfume, and I sneeze as I push inside.

  “Your health!” says a male voice.

  I look around. I’m in a long, windowless corridor. A doorway on the left seems to be the source of the voice.

  I go to the doorway. It opens on a lamplit sitting room that resembles nothing so much as the boudoir of a merchant’s wife. There are low sofas upholstered in yellow silk, delicate woodblock prints of garden scenes, pink lanterns hanging from the ceiling beams.

  A man reclining on a sofa watches me. “I’d ask if you were a worshiper,” he says in a deep-chested voice, “but somehow I doubt it.”

  He’s a young man of about my age, beardless and broad-chested. His looks are not extraordinary, but extraordinary he is nonetheless. He reminds me of a purebred cat, or a sleepy young woman staying up to attend a very late party. His eyelids are painted orange beneath heavy brows, his lips stained pale pink, his thick black braids threaded with silver. His trailing silk robe is a bright vermilion, sliding off one brown shoulder to reveal an intricate tattoo. Another tattoo spirals up his bare foot and ankle. He is, of all things, knitting—something yellow and lacy on double-pointed needles.

  I tell myself I will not be intimidated by this decorative young man. “I need to speak with whoever is in charge.”

  The votary sets aside his knitting and sits up slowly, crossing one smooth leg over the other. “All business is by appointment. I do welcome you to the temple of the Queen of Delight.”

  “You don’t understand. Whoever is in charge of your temple, that’s who I need to speak to. It’s urgent.”

  The votary lifts his heavy brows. “You understand that we take the privacy of our worshipers very seriously.”

  He thinks I am someone’s wife or lover, come to chase them out of the temple of the Mistress of Ardor. “Oh, are you blind?” I cry. “Can’t you see I’m like you, I’m consecrated?”

  He stares at me, mouth open. “Not a devotee of…Reason?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know anymore,” I say, and burst into sobs.

  ***

  I Take Refuge in a House of Carnality

  Eidel has made me tea.

  “It’s chamomile and honey,” he says, handing me a pink porcelain cup. “Nothing that would be forbidden to a devotee of your temple.”

  I draw the knit blanket tighter around my shoulders and lift the cup to my face. The fragrant steam feels good against my damp skin.

  Eidel has ceded the sofa to me. He lowers himself onto a nearby ottoman, silk robe fluttering. “Now, what in Love’s name are you doing here?”

  Gripping the cup, eyes half-closed, I let the story pour out of me. I don’t know what drives me to unburden my heart to this strange man, but the truth is I have nowhere else to turn. As my secret shame turns to words, my tears slow, and I begin to feel less fragile.

  When I finish, the votary is staring into his untouched tea. “You think he was trying to… get you with child?”

  “It’s like the stories you hear in the country. The god of the tempest, or the lord of the forest, comes to some peasant girl and turns himself into lightning, or a swarm of frogs…”

  “Those are country stories,” Eidel says carefully. “Forgive me, but why would the Lord of Reason—?”

  My heart sinks. He doesn’t believe me.

  “I don’t know why it’s happening to me,” I say. “I never asked for it. I thought your temple would know what to do. Your goddess is at war with my god, isn’t that right? And everyone knows your votaries have sacred visions.”

  “Whatever I’ve seen, it’s nothing like that.” Eidel’s colorful mouth twists in a frown. “Normally when people ask for our help in these situations, the pursuer is human.”

  “Please don’t make light of this.”

  “I’m not,” he says, suddenly grave. “I just…I need to think.”

  Eidel sets his teacup on the floor and stares at his manicured hands. I sip my tea, pausing to wipe the corners of my eyes.

  “Sanctuary,” he says finally. “I can offer you sanctuary, if you truly feel safe here. That’s my right as a votary. Our priestess may not like it, but she rarely approves of me.”

  Sanctuary, I repeat silently, and feel a moment of blessed relief.

  Then I remember where I am. My chest tightens. I remember kneeling in the western chapel, His gaze on me. Will this be any different? What have I surrendered myself to?

  “Oh, for Love’s sake.” Eidel comes to sit on the edge of the sofa. He retrieves an embroidered handkerchief from his breast pocket and hands it to me. “Isn’t that what you wanted me to say?”

  Weeping again, I press the handkerchief to my face. It smells of rosewater. “But…you’re a prostitute!”

  Eidel smiles. “Yes, but that’s nothing to cry over,” he says.

  ***

  The bedclothes and carpet and wall-hangings in my room are the color of light through closed eyelids, peach and amber and carnelian.

  I sleep mostly by day. At night I dream of gray towers, and drowning in icy pools, and a scent like rotting leaves. Often my god is my dreams, not embodied, but an unseen shadow. My blood comes, so I know I’m not expecting a child.

  My nocturnal habits suit the temple. Its business takes place during the day, the votaries passing the sunlit hours behind closed doors, or in certain gardens I learn to avoid. Evening is their leisure time. Some of the votaries try to be kind to me, but I don’t invite companionship. Their friendships make me heartsick for what I’ve lost.

  Eidel is my friend whether I want him or not. After supper, he knocks on the door and asks permission to spend the evening with me. No doubt he feel sorry for me, but I don’t mind his company. Eidel is a gossip, and a funny one. I learn all the business of the house despite being an outsider: jealousies and petty disputes, fierce rivalries with the quayside brothels, forbidden romances among the votaries.

  Four weeks after my arrival, Eidel brings a summons to my door. “The Consecrated Tehafa wishes to see you,” he says.

  I rise unsteadily, chest pounding. I have never set eyes on the head priestess, who spends her days in seclusion. Will she offer me aid, or ask me to leave?

  Eidel leads me along a red corridor to a curtained doorway. He gives me a brief smile and departs. I push through the curtain and enter a windowless room lit by candles. Reclined on pillows is a severe-looking woman with a tight black bun, crimson lips, and a linen robe that is thin enough to be transparent.

  “I am the Consecrated Tehafa,” she says. “Sit.”

  I lower myself to the ground, feeling scrutinized. I consider a polite
greeting but decide that silence is the best option.

  “So,” the Consecrated Tehafa says, “you’re Eidel’s pet.”

  The word jolts me. “Eidel has been very kind to me.”

  “No doubt. But kindness has done little to alter your situation. Unless you’re enjoying your stay here.”

  I meet her gaze. “If you have another suggestion, I’d be glad to hear it.”

  The Consecrated Tehafa gives me a cold smile and draws a gold chain from beneath her robe. From it hangs a gem, a carnelian carved like a rose.

  “I wear this as a sign of my goddess’s blessing,” she says. “Only She has the power to protect you.”

  “I can’t join this temple.” My words are a whisper.

  The Consecrated Tehafa’s brow lifts in amusement. “I’m suggesting dedication as a worshiper, not a votary, my dear. No doubt Eidel would be happy to conduct the ceremony.”

  Images flood my mind: candles, red curtains, bare skin. All the rumors of what goes on here behind closed doors. “No,” I say breathlessly. “No, I’m sorry, but I can’t do that.”

  The Consecrated Tehafa considers me in silence.

  “You needn’t decide today,” she says finally. “Request an audience with me if you change your mind. Whatever you think of our goddess, She would welcome you, Nassa.”

  ***

  Back in my room, Eidel is lounging on one end of the bed. He’s knitting a shawl, an intricate pattern constructed with stranded knitting and three colors of yarn.

  I sit on the other end of the bed, legs folded beneath me, not looking at him.

  He glances up. “You survived.”

  I expect Eidel to ask questions, but instead he keeps knitting. I sit in silence, grateful he’s not pressing me for details.

  After a while, he wordlessly hands me his knitting. I start the next row, following the pattern he’s started.

  “How in the world do you do that?” he asks after a time.

  “Knit? My aunt taught me.”

  “No, you ridiculous woman,” he says, settling back against the cushions. He’s dressed casually this evening in a baggy tunic and trousers, eyelids painted gold. “How do you follow the pattern when I haven’t taught it to you? Those stockings you finished for me are flawless.”