The Man Who Starved the Gods

Chapter 4: The First Face Returns

The day began with the same pale light and the same empty land.

Eiran rose slowly from the grass. His body had stiffened in the night. The sore place on the inside of his left wrist had darkened. Like the repeated pressure left a shadow under the skin. He stood a long time before he trusted his legs.

He didn’t go to town.

Instead, he walked the long curve of the slope where the village should have been. No pattern. Sometimes he stopped and closed his eyes. Tried to place the houses from memory alone. The well would have been there. The path between the third and fourth house would have turned left. The old gingko trees would have thrown shade across the entrance in the late afternoon. Each time he opened his eyes, the grass was only grass.

The sun climbed. Heat gathered and settled against his back. His mouth was dry. He ignored it. Thirst belonged to the body he was still forced to carry. It didn’t matter beside the heavier weight in his head.

He walked until the stone marker was far behind and the land rose toward a low ridge. The wind was stronger there. It moved through the grass with a dry sound. Eiran stopped. Stood with his face turned into it. Eyes half closed.

That was when the second face returned.

No warning. No mercy.

One moment he was listening to the wind. The next the old man’s face filled his mind so hard the ridge disappeared. The deep lines around the mouth. The stained teeth. The right eye that always squinted against pipe smoke. He smelled the bitter tobacco like the pipe was burning in front of him. Heard the slow, wet sound of breath through the stem.

The memory hit like a blow to the center of his chest.

Eiran’s knees bent. He went down hard on one knee, then the other. The impact ran up through his bones. His stomach turned. For a moment he thought he’d vomit into the grass. He stayed folded forward. One hand on the earth. The other locked around his left wrist. The sore skin under his thumb burned.

The old man’s name came with the face.

Eiran whispered it.

It was barely breath. But the moment it left him, the pain behind his eyes flared white and sharp. Stronger than with his sister’s name. It drove out from the center of his skull and settled in the roots of his teeth. His vision narrowed to a trembling tunnel. Sweat broke across his forehead and upper lip.

He stayed on his knees until the worst passed.

When he could draw a full breath, his hands were shaking. He tried to still them against his thighs. They kept going in small waves. The old man’s face stayed clear in his mind. Less violent now. Fully present. Like a door forced open that wouldn’t close again.

Eiran sat back on his heels and waited for the shaking to ease. It took a long time. Wind moved through the grass around him. A hawk circled high above the ridge. Indifferent.

He whispered the old man’s name a second time. Softer.

Pain came back. Smaller. Like the first speaking had already paid the cost. The shaking got worse for a moment. Then began to fade.

He stayed where he was.

A sound came from the lower slope. The slow creak of a wooden cart. The steady tread of an animal. Eiran didn’t look up at first. When he did, he saw a farmer leading a laden cart along the narrow track that skirted the empty land. The man had already seen him.

Their eyes met.

The farmer slowed. For a moment it looked like he might stop. His face did the calculation. Does this man need help? Then something in Eiran’s posture changed the decision. The farmer’s face shifted to caution. He gave a short nod. Not a greeting. Not dismissal. Clicked his tongue at the animal and went on. The cart rolled past at a distance. Dust rose and drifted sideways in the wind.

Eiran watched until the cart was small. Until the sound of the wheels thinned to nothing.

He was alone again.

He stayed on his knees a while longer. Then forced himself to stand. His legs felt unreliable. The trembling had left his hands and settled deeper. In his thighs. At the base of his spine. He started walking back toward the stone marker. Couldn’t think of anywhere else to go.

The sun had passed its highest point. Heat was steady. Each step jarred the dull pain in his head. He pressed his thumb against the inside of his wrist as he walked. Harder than usual. Like the sharp hurt could balance the larger one.

By the time he reached the marker, the shaking had mostly stopped. He sat in the grass. Back against the stone. The old man’s face was still with him. Not an attack now. A permanent addition. Beside his sister. Two names where there had been one.

He spoke both of them once. Quiet. One after the other.

Pain came in two small waves. Familiar now. Almost expected. He rode them out without a sound. When they passed, the air felt thinner again. Same subtle change as the night before. He still didn’t understand it. Only knew each name he brought back cost him something. And the cost wasn’t finished.

The afternoon stretched. He didn’t sleep. He sat with his back to the stone and watched the light change across the empty slope. From time to time he pressed his wrist. The skin was more tender. A faint bruise was starting. The shape of his thumbprint.

Toward evening, thin clouds moved in from the west. Softened the sun. The wind lost some heat. Eiran closed his eyes and tried to remember the sound of the old man’s voice. It came slowly. Low. Rough. Fond of complaining about the weather. The memory didn’t strike this time. It settled. Heavy. Bearable.

He kept his eyes closed and listened to the grass.

Somewhere above the clouds and above ordinary wind, a minor god felt a second small drain. The first had been easy to dismiss. The second was harder. It left a faint awareness. Like the start of a bruise on a body that thought itself beyond injury. The god turned its attention toward the mortal region below. Still uncertain what it was looking for.

Eiran knew nothing of that.

He only knew the old man was with him now. And his sister was still with him. And the slope was still empty. He opened his eyes when the light began to fail. The first insects of evening were rising from the grass. He watched them a while. Then lay down on his side. Knees drawn up. Left hand on his wrist.

The trembling had stopped.

In its place was a deep, quiet exhaustion. In the center of his bones. He accepted it the way he was starting to accept the pain. As the price of refusing to forget. Sky darkened slowly. The stone marker stood behind him. Blunt. Silent.

Eiran pressed his thumb once more against the sore place on his wrist and held it there as the night came down.