Domestic

We ventured again through the beautiful streets to Keshdanji Charity House. The sun was high and noon had come—workers and students were taking their lunch hour, increasing traffic to collect food at the House. The crowd was spilling out onto the street as we approached, and we carefully shouldered through to the side-entrance of the hall.

“Phew,” I breathed once inside.

“Welcome back, you two. We need rice! We need dates! We’re running low on persimmons, too.”

“Right. Okay.” After sighting the nod from Vicar Herrat, I stepped forward and my hands lit with magic.

The work at the Charity House continued until late afternoon, stretching for an hour after the end of the working day. Sundown would come in an hour, and True Night in perhaps three. The volunteers were gathered around, chatting, collecting the leftover food into baskets inside, and collecting the duplicate baskets for burning. I stretched out my arms, as if the work had been strenuous.

“I know we just fed a, uh, a few thousand people for the week... but it still doesn’t feel real that I’m contributing anything. Objectively, yeah, but it’s just... too easy,” I voiced to nobody.

Vicar Herrat heard it. But he was a silent rock.

“Do you think this messes up the economy? Like some merchants must have moved out, or restricted their stock, or something... and the suppliers only sell a fraction of what we actually dispense...”

“The economy can fall apart to nothing as long as everyone is provided for,” said Herrat.

“I really wouldn’t advocate that... well, I mean Vish is only one piece in a larger landscape, and I’m just one person exerting a limited influence... I wouldn’t want the place to fall out of sync with everywhere else.”

“Focus on Charity.”

“My degree was in this... well.” I looked to the other volunteers, who were finishing up by collecting their own portions of food into baskets. I joined them and grabbed my own. “That’s another day. Good... goodbye, everyone.”

A chorus of ‘goodbye’s and ‘see you next week’s rang out as Vicar Herrat and I exited the building to meet a wide, empty square and garden. With orange evening light streaming down from above, we leisurely departed down the vacated streets to the penitentiary.

My residence for my time in Vish was the penitentiary. It was also part of why the small town was chosen as my designation at all—most of its offenders were served in the larger, neighbouring cities of Ghinnejar and Rikkjar, leaving Vish’s penitentiary open to be solely devoted to me. ...Which was a contingency the Church had deemed necessary—partially to give me the resources, and partially to, considering my history, keep me away from other penitents.

The building was elegant and quite large, with curved, sloping roofs and the emblem of a heart submerged in water tiled on its eaves. Far be me from the discomfort I once felt in Yeshimar; I had come to find this place quite familiar.

Vicar Herrat and I entered the building, and what emerged before us was a small office space-slash-reception area, similar to the penitentiary in Yeshimar. Nobody was at the desk. We moved on through a door that Herrat unlocked, whereupon it opened into a large cream-coloured carpeted lounge with a kitchenette, a full bookshelf, and a table—then a hallway down which were four rooms, three being dorms for the penitents, which was just me, and one bathroom.

Other countries might be surprised by the accommodations offered to criminals. But the principle behind crime in Kitiven has, since the days of Gedjat, been one of rehabilitation, reformation, and redemption. As such, living facilities could be surprisingly comfortable even for murderers. It was part of why I’d murdered Tjan, all that time ago—I knew the consequences on my material well-being wouldn’t be that harsh.

I set the basket of food on the kitchenette bench and seated myself at the table. Herrat retrieved a worn Book of the Scriptures from the bookshelf, laid it before me, seated himself across from me, and opened his own personal copy.

“Now, we were on Etudes 3. Do you remember the place? Yes, there we are. Proceed.”

I took a breath and began reading off the page. “And the prophet spoke, Art is a gift I have given your Hands. The introspective nature of Art is a door to the aesthetics of the Divine, aesthetics I greatly treasure; see them in the wing of a bird, delicate wing of the insect, the forking trunk of the tree, the branch, the hairy leaf and soft flower. The insect comes for the pollen and the bird comes for the fruit; there is My aesthetic in the breaking of pulp and the scattering of powder. It is Art, but it is mechanic; all great mechanics neglects not their Art, and the greatest Art is also mechanic, of the beautifying arts, reminding us of the mathematic curve, the Holy stories of the Eternal Archetype, and the sanctity and interconnectedness of all the life I have created. It is laudable to depict such things excellently.

“Take pride in your Arete, those whose Hands excel in the Arts, for God Himself has Hands of an Artist—virtuoso in all fields of being. Sweat over each mark of the brush, each cut of the chisel, each angle of the house, and know you strain against the odious Uncreation as would a warrior strain against a ghoul. Cover your cities in Art. I smile on the Artful Hands and Artful city.

“Charity is the greatest of My Divine Arts. Few can link mechanic Art to Charity; but brute Charity is the greatest of Arts. Provide food before providing a song, unless it is a song the hungry can eat. Such is a Miracle only I and my chosen can perform, as is the redemption of the soul of a ghoul. The redemption of a ghoul is the Masterpiece of Charity; as is the redemption of all who Would Be Ghouls, that is all damned under the gaze of the Serpent; that is all man, who is envied and despised. What is the redemption of those who Would Be Ghouls? It is favour in the eyes of God. Who is favoured in the eyes of God? It is the parent who loves their child, and the Artist who loves their Creation, and the man who loves their Arete. Who is abused in the hatred of a child? The child, who is protected by God. Who is abused in the hatred of Arete? The man, who becomes a victim of God. Who is abused in the hatred of art? The eyes and the heart, which God loves, but does not protect. One is free to fail in virtues in Art.

“Take freedom in Art. Find love in Art. Such is the path of Arete. So the prophet spoke...”

The chapter continued for many more verses, describing the Pontifex Gedjat’s meditation mostly on arts and his discussions with various heretic peoples on the nature of art and how to correctly evoke divine beauty. I continued reading until the clock in the office chimed seven.

I sighed, feeling the energy seep out of me as I slumped back in the chair.

“Very good,” said Vicar Herrat. “How do you feel about these meditations, Mephi?”

“I used to hate them. I, uh, really did...” I shifted in my seat, leaning my elbow on the table and chin in my palm. “Because, it says to find freedom in art, but it feels really restrictive... to think things I could mindlessly do just to pass time, or, to organise some of my thoughts, were something intrinsically devoted to God. Like they couldn’t be devoted to anything else, you had Czjeir breathing over your shoulder sucking up the meaning of a piece of art... like just because I was able to draw something, it meant God was happy about that. I really... didn’t like that. Or that just because I thought meaningfully about a drawing I was making, it couldn’t be devoted to something selfish and occult. I didn’t like Czjeir being ‘happy’ about me. Probably because... I just hated everything. But I feel like... I kind of ‘got’ it.

“Then, you know, I met Czjeir... and after that I was kind of, too preoccupied, to be thinking much about art. Though, sometimes, kinda, I wondered if killing was my Arete, and if there could be... a kind of art in that, but... it’s not really... not really the same thing...”

I tilted my head, biting my nail. If there could be art in Charity, could there be art in killing, or retributive justice? Whatever. It was behind me.

“And now, Mephi?” asked Herrat.

I shrugged. “I’m still frosty. I just... I don’t have a ‘love’ for God in my heart when I draw, or chisel, or whatever. I’m not inspired like that. I just want to create something good.”

Herrat patted his stomach and smiled grimly. “That is the very attitude extolled in the Etudes. Your work is not without skill, too. Perhaps this is an avenue by which Czjeir was inspiring you, before you diverted.”

Somehow that thought didn’t offend me. Perhaps I thought it was right. “Yeah.”

Herrat soaked in the silence for some moments, clearly thinking, before he rapped his hand on the table and closed his Book. “Best start dinner.”

“Right, yeah,” I said, getting up from the table. I put the Book away in the bookshelf, went to the kitchenette, and began preparing a pot of rice. I was truly content to eat most things raw, which had been true since before I became a monster able to eat anything, just because I used to hate cooking. I still wasn’t fond of it, but the Church insisted on ‘fruitful activities’ as a means of rehabilitation, and it wasn’t a bad skill to have, so I put up with it.

I took out a sheath of paper as the rice cooked and set to drawing a picture of a snapping dog, strung up in tubes and wires.

Herrat winced. “Not without skill, but very grim, Mephi.”

“I mean, I’m a grim person.”

“Do you not consider drawing something that captures a more positive strand of imagination? What of the sight of the woman when she knew her dog would live—does that image not move you at all?”

“I mean, it was nice in real life, but I don’t like drawing people.”

Vicar Herrat tilted his head.

“Please don’t, put that in your report as ‘antisocial tendencies’, haha... s-save that for if, I was actually trying to hurt people... um, if you’ll allow me to say that.”

“I consider many things in my reports. Do you not think, Mephi, it speaks ill of a Bishop’s ability to counsel a supplicant when his mind is fixated on the macabre?”

I twiddled the pencil in my hand, pressing my thumb on the graphite point. “What, like it h-has to be p-puppies and roses? Well, it’s not like I know how to pray, either. I’m sorry that I... skipped the seminary...” I cringed at myself as I spoke it.

Herrat frowned stiffly. “Prayer is the centrepiece of a Bishop’s practice, Mephi.”

“Yeah, because they need it, to do what I can do.” I wiped my hand down my eye. “Sorry—I know it’s different.”

“Prayer is not only for miracles, but to be divinely guided in deed and speech. When uncertain, the practitioner can always rely on Czjeir to guide them, and by extension, those in their charge. This is a serious deficiency.”

“I know, I know...” I sighed, resting my chin in my hand.

“Do you wish to change this?”

I looked aside awkwardly. “...I don’t, really, hate myself right now, you know? I mean... I’m just trying to fit in with society. Being an actual Bishop is a high bar for that.” I put my fist to my forehead and craned my head back. “I guess I have to though, right? Or I’m just relying on special allowances, titles like Tax Collector and Antibishop...”

Herrat folded his hands. “If art is a means by which Czjeir communes with you, perhaps you best reciprocate with a subject pleasing to His heart.”

The guy didn’t get it. He’d never felt the trance of creative flow, that divine high of ideas knitting seamlessly together. Nevermind that the subject was grim.

I sighed and sketched the first thing that came to mind: a curled dog overlaid with itself howling, with insects running through its cardiovascular system and a beam of light shining upon it. It wasn’t supposed to be something Czjeir would ‘like’, again, it just randomly sprung to mind.

Vicar Herrat glanced over without commenting, seemingly unsure what to make of it.

The rice was ready about then. I moved it into a pan with figs, nuts, and spices to simmer, and in a short few minutes I had created two plates of sweet fig rice. As an accompaniment, I made two cups of rooibos tea as well. I laid everything on the table and seated myself again.

I took a breath and joined my hands in prayer. “Um, thank you for this bounty... for the farmers who grew this food, the suppliers who got it to us, and the uh, weather, for making it grow... thanks for today in general, and thank God for looking after my diet, seriously... okay, um, amen.”

“Amen. Let us always remember those less fortunate, and always have the means to help them.”

Okay, sure, that too. When it came to eating issues, the insinuation that someone out there had it worse than me pissed me off more than a little, but I stamped the thought down before it showed on my face.

We ate. We drank. I got up and did the dishes. The meal didn’t do anything about the dull ache in my gut, but it had become customary for me to engage with the pretence of normality. Since I had conjured the food, I didn’t even feel guilty about wasting any resources. So it felt nice. It felt like a promise.

“Adequate,” Herrat patted his belly.

“Thanks.”

He stood and took his Book from the table. “It has been another acceptable day of service under the eye of Czjeir. Your piety, as usual, is of some concern... but the Church demands only obedience, which, again, you have exhibited.” His mouth quirked into a grimace. “Mephi, it has been some time now since we began this arrangement, and I am beginning to worry that you are stagnating. You spoke once that Czjeir said you would be working toward removing your hunger—do you believe we are on track to proceed that?”

“...No, not really,” I admitted. “Things have been kind of the same since, well, since month two, when I got used to all this.”

“Then I would urge you to earnestly pray, and make a habit of doing so. Czjeir does regard you, so your voice isn’t shouting out to the void.”

I pointed languidly at him with a fork I was holding. “See, that’s a grim image.”

“Czjeir hears some voices more clearly than others. We do not like to admit it, but it is true. Further, I would advise you to channel your art into holier, more lovely subjects. I believe that is quite important.”

“Right... alright.” I sighed, and ground my teeth. Nothing killed the muse more than being forced into objectionable subject matter. “I’ll work on it. Tomorrow, then. Same time as usual...”

“As always. Goodnight, Mephi,” Vicar Herrat bowed his head and exited the room. The click of a lock then came from the door. A lonely sanctity fell over the space—wholly my territory, now.

“Whew. Humm...” I breathed, pushing myself off from the back of a chair.

It was dark outside the windows with the first stars beginning to twinkle. True Night would come very soon. I used magic to conjure a light and sat to read more of the Etudes, feeling oddly religious thanks to Herrat. Was working towards removing the Hunger the same as working towards becoming a legitimate Bishop? If Madjea had an aura that cancelled the Hunger out, it stood to reason that could be correct.

Legitimate Bishops usually went through years of practice in seminary, though. Czjeir also had said it could be a decade before I defeated the Hunger, so perhaps that timeframe was what to expect.

No great epiphany came to me by reading, though there was a peace to the activity. I put away the book, showered, and changed into my bedclothes.

I had chosen the room at end of the hallway as mine. It was quite large, with a bed, shelves for personal effects, a table, and a big window with a view of the back garden. One of my possessions was a roll of white fabric: I laid it over the table, then reached out my hands.

I focused and summoned up magic. Splotches of colour suspended themselves in the air, arranging themselves into a pattern at my command. Once satisfied with their arrangement, I lowered the conjured paint onto the fabric and beheld the image of a turtledove flying off a branch towards the sun, rendered in bold blues, whites, and yellows. Certainly a happier image than the dogs, and one that didn’t feel entirely strongarmed into religious imagery. I mean, I liked birds enough.

Herrat would probably like it.

Satisfied, I relaxed into bed.

Such had been my life for the past eight months. I had no complaints. I truly could continue with this status quo forever, even after Herrat retired, and make myself a special burden for the Church to accommodate for decades or centuries. I kind of liked the leash. I liked the supervision. It was something to fall back on, a baseline of responsibility that didn’t fall on me, a gap where I could say, ‘I can’t help this’. And maybe I was lucky with Herrat, who afforded me to be casual and irreverent. But Herrat was a man who hated me, so the Church’s propriety pulled through again.

I just needed to coast on the minimum of not openly defying the Church. And if I failed for my efforts, I failed.

Alright Czjeir. Sorry. It’s me, you know me, you should be able to hear me, I thought forcefully with my eyes closed. I’ve been doing pretty well with this whole ‘restriction’ thing so far. Not having the Hunger to deal with is amazing. Thank you so, so much for that. But can you help me figure out what I should be doing to get rid of it totally? Do I need to be more reverent to You? That should be an obvious ‘yes’, right? But I’m not like that. You know I’m not like that. Is there something I could do that’s a bit easier? Not that I’m saying this should be easy or anything, just, you know. Alright, sorry, the point is, please help me again. Thanks. Amen.

With that, I soon drifted so sleep.