The walls had been whispering for nearly two hours. Not whole words. At least, not yet.
It was a low-pitched wail, a cry for help, that beat against the paper-thin plaster of the townhouse and trickled through the air vents, the windows, the floorboards, the crawlspace that Diego used to hide in as a child, when his mother and father were still unhappily married. The more that he listened, the more that the voice gained substance in the quiet. Out. It wanted out. It begged for an escape. The walls were no place for the soul of a god.
“Mom!” yelled Diego. “Come up here, quick!”
Clothes hangers falling, the wham of a suitcase slamming on the floor. Then his mother’s voice as she crawled into the attic. “What is it?” she said.
Diego put a caramel finger to his lips. He tapped on the wall that they shared with their neighbors, and they knelt. Listened.
“Shit,” she whispered. “Another one, already? No wonder the Garcia’s left so quickly.
Just ignore it, Diego.”
“But it’s dying,” he said.
“And you think you can stop that? How about the Alvarez’s, could you have helped them? People separate from their god all the time, and we don’t want the DRP thinking it’s us.”
Diego reluctantly peeled from the wall. He let the god’s voice fade into the darkness, and he followed his mother down the ladder from the attic.
She fixed him with an eye that was as dark as his own. “Have you finished packing yet?”
He fumbled with a button that dangled from his shirt, that his mother had re-sewn a hundred times, rather than wasting any money on a tailor. Since his father had left, their budget had been tight. “I don’t want to go.”
“And I don’t want to send you.” His mother crossed her arms. “You think I want to fight in a war we didn’t start? I was done with the army. Ten years is enough.”
Diego shuffled back to the base of the ladder, his ear tilted up to the mutterings above. If they could hear Mrakau, or this piece of Mrakau, could the god hear them?
He lowered his eyes. “Can’t I come with you?”
“Mijo,” she said, cupping his chin. “I wish that you could, but the barracks aren’t a place for twelve-year-old boys.”
He already knew this. She had told him before. But the thought of leaving her—his heart, his home, the life that they had built from the ashes of the past—if only temporarily, felt decidedly wrong.
Diego’s face hardened. “Do I have to stay with him?”
She knew who he meant: the corruptor, the defiler, the twice god-killer. Diego had never had a chance to meet his step-father. And that was intentional. “They’ll take good care of you.”
Her bottom lip trembled as if it didn’t believe her. “Maybe I’ve kept you apart for too long.”
Diego tried to laugh, but it died in his throat. Five years was five too few, in his book.
His mother checked her watch. “Now, that’s enough moping. Your plane leaves tomorrow, and you haven’t even packed.” She shooed him into his bedroom.
The soul in the attic seemed to fester in her absence. It spoke to the soul that lived in his chest, the piece of Mrakau that he had been given at birth. What kind of a person would rip out their god-soul, stash it in the wall, and leave it there to die?
He thought he knew of one. And he would see him soon.
They went to the airport early the next morning. Norfolk International was already awake; the terminal was swarming with military personnel who had answered the call to defend their faith.
He and his mother said goodbye at the gate. She cupped his chin, and she whispered a prayer to her son and to Mrakau. She even made the sign of the cross on her chest, as if that could have made any difference anymore. Old habits died hard. “I love you, mijo.”
“I love you too, mom.”
And then, right before she watched him walk away, she grabbed his hand and squeezed three times. Once for strength. Once for luck. And once just in case she never came back.
The flight took six hours longer than expected—not due to fuel or mechanical problems, but a raging fanatic who wouldn’t shut up.
“Revolt!” yelled the man, while two flight attendants tried to drag him down the aisle.
“The god of the Testament can still win the war! Down with the worm! Down with Mrakau!”
Not so different from what they said on the streets. Mostly in whispers, yet some of the zealots were growing more emboldened. The kid beside Diego leaned over his armrest: “I’m not really sure if I can blame him, you know? It still feels kind of weird to worship a worm.”
Diego closed his eyes and pretended to sleep.
The plane made a stop at Chicago O’Hare in order to unload and summon the police; they handcuffed the man, who was kicking and screaming. Do we really need an animal to filter our souls? No, you fools! Think for yourselves!
Then, unsurprisingly, the DRP came. Interrogations lasted for half the afternoon. What did he tell you? How did he behave? Did he mention anything about another attack? Diego knew well not to lie or deflect. To harbor any harm towards a god was illegal, especially to one that was injured and missing, and Diego was much too young to go to jail.
By the time that he re-boarded the plane, it was dark out. They flew through a clear sky of moonlight and stars, and just when he started to fade into sleep, he caught his first glimpse of the City by the Bay, the gray strip of fog that hugged the peninsula. The view was spectacular, something from a movie.
He clicked off the light and shut the window.
San Francisco International was quiet when they landed. Most of the military had already left, and these days, tourists were all but absent. No one wanted to fly when the gods were at war.
That left the baggage-claim carousel sparse. There were only two men sitting by it: his dads.
One of them—the one he didn’t recognize—grinned. A thick bar of dark hair hung on his lip, making up for all of what was missing on his head. He wore a floral button-up, open at the top, and his biceps popped. He was youthful, exuberant, despite his age. So very unlike the man at his side.
Diego’s father clung to a cane as he stood. His dark eyes sunken, his pale cheeks gaunt, he lacked the vitality that lived in his photographs. More of a shadow of a man, than a man. He didn’t look anything like what Diego remembered.
His step-father held out his arms when he approached. “It’s so nice to finally meet you,” he said, letting them hang when Diego backed up. “I’m Ezekiel, but you can call me Izzy for short.” He grinned as if the two of them were the best of friends.
Diego didn’t answer. He glared at his father, the man who had left him and his mother all alone. “You look different,” he said. He didn’t mean it as a compliment.
Saul Rodriguez shrugged in response. “It happens,” he said, as if making a joke.
Diego didn’t laugh.
“I’ve missed you, mijo.”
Diego grabbed his suitcase. “Don’t call me that,” he said.
“What,” said Saul, “I can’t call you my son?”
Diego didn’t answer.
“Hey,” said Ezekiel. “Let’s get on the road; it’s been a long day. Here, let me help you.”
“No,” said Diego. He yanked away his suitcase.
“How about we stop for some dinner on the way? Feel like a burger?”
Diego growled, “I’m vegan.”
The awkwardness clung like a wraith as they left. It lingered as they picked up trays of Pad-Thai, drove down Taraval Street towards the ocean, and walked up the steps to a white-brick house.
The first thing he noticed when he entered was the walls. They whispered like they had in the attic of his townhouse.
“I thought you had reinstated Mrakau,” said Diego.
Ezekiel froze. “I did,” he said, glancing over at Saul. “But sometimes, once you separate from a god—even if you reinstate—it leaves a residue.” He rested his hand on the whitewashed wall. “Try to tune it out. I’m sure you’ll get used to it.”
Diego allowed them to show him to his room. He unpacked and ate his tray of Pad-Thai alone. He didn’t go back into the house to say goodnight, didn’t want to face the god-killer again. As he turned out the lights, he locked the door, and he leaned into the wood.
Ezekiel and Saul were talking in the hallway. And one thing crept through the din in the walls: his step-father’s voice. “Do you think we should tell him?”
Whatever it was, neither of them did.
Ezekiel woke up early the next morning; he was eager to talk about Diego’s new school.
Mission Dolores Academy wasn’t far. He would take the L-train out to Castro Street Station, then walk a few blocks to Dolores Park. Saul was too tired, but Ezekiel could take him. Really, it was no problem, it would give them time to bond.
“No thanks,” said Diego.
But Ezekiel wouldn’t have it. “Come on,” he said. “It’ll be an adventure.”
So, he and the god-killer went out, alone.
The city swept by in a fog-laced blur as the street-car jostled along down Taraval. In the distance, a horn blared, heavy and monotonous; it lasted for several long minutes, then faded.
Diego didn’t ask, but his step-father answered. “That’s the drill-horn, just in case something happens.” Yet he didn’t specify what that something could be.
The train broke through a row of pastel houses, and the frame of a massive metal structure appeared, at the top of a hill that was covered in trees. It stabbed at the sky like a two-prong lance.
Ezekiel pointed through the window of the street-car. “That’s Sutro Tower. They say that right after the second prong was built, Mrakau could be seen climbing up to the top, his tail hanging all the way down to the ground, his snout peeking out through the dense wall of fog.
They say that he would watch over the city for days.”
Diego spun around, mouth hanging open. “Really?” he said, before catching himself.
Lies—those were all that his step-father told.
By the time the train stopped and the two of them had walked several blocks from the station, their silence had returned, cold and uncomfortable. They came to a bustling street called Church—without any churches—but a building rose up from the side of the park, with a green-capped cupola and a tower with a bell. Mission Dolores Academy. Finally.
“Walk on this side.” Ezekiel stood between Diego and the park, and Diego resisted the urge to pull away. But then he saw the crowd, the army of signs, the policemen with plexiglass shields and batons.
Someone from the crowd grabbed a microphone and yelled, “The old god will rise from the death of Mrakau!”
Ezekiel wrapped a strong arm around Diego. “They’re just nervous,” he said. “Don’t pay them any mind.”
Aren’t you nervous, too? Diego wanted to say. You extracted Mrakau, just like all of them. Restoring his soul doesn’t make you a saint. But Diego stayed quiet.
Ezekiel stopped at a set of stone stairs. He gestured for Diego to go inside. “Have a good time. I’ll be back this afternoon.”
Diego left him without saying goodbye.
He walked up the stairs and into an auditorium, where a handful of children—some older, some younger—were gathered in the front row. He threw down his backpack and fell into a seat.
The girl that was next to him didn’t even budge. She picked at the corpse of a bracelet on her wrist, pink and blue threads in a crisscross pattern.
“Hi,” said Diego, holding out his hand. “I’m Diego. I just moved here.”
She didn’t look up. “Well, aren’t you special.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
But she didn’t get to answer.
The ceiling lights flashed. A woman stepped out from the curtains backstage; she was dressed in high-heels and a snug black dress-suit. She picked up a microphone and stood at the podium. “Welcome,” she said, “to Mission Dolores.”
The long row of children began to perk up.
“I know that you’re eager to get to your classrooms, but I wanted to take this opportunity to ground you.” She paused and smiled. “The world today is in a state of unrest, and everyone here, in this room, is a victim—of war, displacement, of undue violence to the true god, Mrakau.
Some of your parents are fighting for justice. Some, unfortunately, are stuck in tradition, and they have been punished—or will be, soon.” She paused as a kid in the audience began to cry.
“But you are your very own tool for salvation.”
A voice from the aisle: “What can we do?”
The woman just smiled. “I’m glad you asked.” She held up a thick wad of folded brochures. “The Deity Rehabilitation Project is a worldwide effort to help Mrakau. We still don’t know how the heretics hurt him, nor do we know where he has gone to hide. But we do know this: evil is out there. Enemies surround us. Those that believe in the old-world order are eager to eliminate the god of today. And the more we can do to lend strength to Mrakau, the more of a chance that our god will survive.”
Then the same kid said, “I want to join!” A ripple of high-pitched voices followed.
“Wonderful.” The DRP representative beamed. “Each of your teachers will have more details. We’ll have our first meeting at the end of the week.”
She turned to walk away, but the girl by Diego raised her hand and stood up. “I have a question.”
The auditorium hushed.
“What’s going to happen when Mrakau really dies?”
Silence. All eyes returned to the stage.
The DRP representative picked up her microphone. “That is not up for discussion,” she said.
Diego sank into the folds of his sheets, his phone in his hand.
“Mijo.” His mother’s voice, choppy with static. “Mijo, I miss you, it’s so good to hear from you.”
“I miss you too, mom.”
“How are they treating you? Is everything well?”
Diego rolled over and muffled the phone as Ezekiel poked his bald head into the room.
He carried a tray with a plate and utensils. “We made you some dinner,” his step-father whispered. He threw a weak smile at Diego and left.
“Diego?” His mother. “Mijo, are you there?”
“Yeah, mom, I’m here. Everything’s fine.” He told her all about his first day of school, the protest in the park, the blaring of the drill-horn that smothered the city. “It was scary to see so many of them together.”
“Don’t worry,” she said, “this’ll all be over soon. Once we find Mrakau, you can come back home.”
But Diego wasn’t sure that it would be that easy. If one god had fallen sick, couldn’t another? The god of the Testament had withered away. The god that had taken its place had disappeared. And that wasn’t counting Diego’s own god, the one that had existed when his parents were married, the one that he had worshiped without needing a reason. “A woman from the DRP came to our school. She wants me to go to an exploratory meeting.”
“Go,” said his mother, without hesitation. “The more we can do to end this, the better.”
Diego arrived just in time for the meeting. He wasn’t sure what good a sixth-grader could do, but he figured if his mother believed in him that much, he might as well try to avenge his family.
All of the children from the auditorium were there; they were grouped around stations that were spread through the room. Some had speakers that played calming music, some had an anatomical replica of a worm, and some had tanks filled with actual worms. Though these worms were small, the length of his pinkie. Not nearly as thick or as long as Mrakau, and their skin didn’t pulse with the osmosis of souls.
He pressed both hands against the reinforced glass.
“They’re sort of pretty, aren’t they?” The girl with the bracelet stood beside him at the tank. “We grew them at my last school. They’re called microdriles.”
“Oh,” said Diego. “Yeah. They’re cute.” He grimaced as the tiny worms burrowed in the dirt. “But why are they here?”
The girl, whose tag on her shirt read Margo, let out a laugh. “Isn’t it obvious? To look for Mrakau.” She put her hands on her hips. “The megadrile god?”
Diego just blushed.
“Sorry,” said Margo. “I know I can be harsh.” She pointed at one of the caged microdriles. “These are just worms, but they’re similar to Mrakau—like humans and monkeys.
So, the DRP uses them as vessels for our souls. They take a bit of the soul”—she tapped on her chest— “that Mrakau gave to us, and we train them to find their way back to the god. Wherever he’s hiding.”
Diego scrunched his face. “How do you know that?”
“This isn’t my first DRP meeting,” said Margo.
“It’s not?” He thought back to the whispers in the walls. Of who had put them there.
“No,” bragged Margo. “My old school had them. My foster parents wanted to make sure
I joined; they said it would help to “channel my frustration”.” She curled her fingers into physical quotations. “My parents, they left when Mrakau was attacked. They joined the rebellion.” She held up her wrist. “This was the last thing my mom made for me.”
“I’m sorry,” said Diego. He pictured his father and the man that he had married. Ezekiel was almost as bad as her parents.
“Anyways,” said Margo. “You can pick what you do here: training, anatomy, group prayer—”
“Training,” said Diego. He wanted to be useful. He wanted to go home.
“My favorite!” said Margo. “Now, watch what I do.” She placed one lime-green fingernail over her heart.
Diego’s jaw fell as a glossy white thread unspooled from her chest—a piece of the god that lived in them both. She flung the soul-piece of Mrakau into the tank.
It touched one of the worms. The thread disappeared. And then the worm charged like a bullet in the dirt. It stopped in front of Diego.
“I found you,” said Margo, grinning triumphantly.
Diego gaped. “How?”
Margo poked him in the shoulder. “Both of us were born with a soul from Mrakau.
Souls gravitate towards those that are like them. So, I used a piece of my god-soul to find yours.
The worm was the car, I was the gas, and you were the blinking red dot on the map.”
“How many times have you done this?” said Diego.
“Oh, more than I could count.” Margo started picking at the bracelet on her wrist. “I thought I could use them to look for my parents. But that didn’t work.”
Diego frowned. “Why not?”
Margo just shrugged.
“They must have gone far.”
“Who cares,” said Margo. “I don’t need them, and they don’t need me. They showed me who they were when they didn’t come back. You know anyone like that?”
Diego paused. He nodded.
Margo grabbed her backpack. “Hey, that’s okay, I don’t need to know their name.” She nodded at the woman on the other side of the classroom, the DRP agent who had summoned them there. “You tell her, and she’ll take care of it. Whoever it is, they deserve it. Trust me.”
Diego waved as she left. He stood at the tank for a very long time, and he thought of what Margo had done. Of what she’d said.
You tell her, and she’ll take care of it.
And Diego wanted to do as much as he could.
Later that afternoon, before he went home, he tapped on the shoulder of the woman at the chalkboard.
Five more days of awkward silence. Of meals in his room. Of torturous trips with
Ezekiel to school, just to be safe, in the growing unrest. Fights in the park were now routine, and his father and step-father didn’t want him to get hurt.
As if they actually cared.
“How about dinner with us?” said Ezekiel. “I tried out a lentil-loaf recipe online.”
Diego didn’t move. He stared at his homework. “I’m busy,” he mumbled. “Can I just eat in here?”
“We thought it would be nice for us to all eat together. You know, as a family.”
Diego cringed. “No, thanks.”
So, Ezekiel left.
But dinner never came. When an hour had passed, and Diego’s stomach growled, he decided he would rather take his chances than starve. He opened the door and crept towards the kitchen.
“Well, look who it is,” said Ezekiel, smiling. He and his father were seated at the table.
“Hungry?” he said, and he offered a plate.
Diego, reluctantly, grabbed it and sat.
“So,” said Saul. “How’s school been?”
“Fine.”
“Have you made any friends?”
“One,” said Diego.
“That’s nice,” said Saul.
“I’ve noticed,” said Ezekiel, wiping at his mustache. “You seem to be a big fan of one-word answers.”
The three of them stared at each other in silence.
“Alright,” said Ezekiel.
Diego cut into the loaf on his plate; he took a first bite. It wasn’t that bad, or as bad as it looked. Ezekiel grinned at him, chewing with pride.
The silence stretched on.
“Dad,” said Diego, the word tasting strange. Saul and Ezekiel froze mid-bite. “What happened to you?”
His father’s hand shook as he set down his fork. “Nothing,” he said. “Just stress, that’s all.”
Diego considered. “Because of Mrakau?”
His father just sighed. “It’s a bit more complicated.” But he didn’t elaborate.
Then Ezekiel rose. “Well, who wants dessert?” From the kitchen, he brought back a tray of wedding cookies, a trickle of powdered-sugar falling behind him.
“Thanks,” said Diego. Those had been his favorite for as long as he could remember.
Ezekiel patted him softly on the shoulder. “And I saved you some dough. Your father said you liked it.”
Diego let a smile slip. He covered his mouth, but his father still saw.
Saul smiled back. “I know you miss home, but it’s been wonderful having you. More than you can know.”
Diego didn’t answer, but not from the flood of powdered sugar in his mouth. Another thing, that slid all the way from his stomach and settled, as heavy as an anvil, in his throat. It tasted like guilt.
They came the next day.
He suspected when Ezekiel didn’t show up at school—not when the bell-tower rang for three o’clock, and the protesters gathered, and the drill-horn covered the city in a hum. By four o’clock, Diego chose to walk home, alone.
He started to worry. Would Ezekiel’s absence really solve anything? Probably not for the world at-large. It was a small consolation for the damage he had caused.
When he came to their house, the front door was open. The foyer, the living room, the kitchen was a mess. And the walls—they were silent. The whispering god-soul was no longer there.
“Dad?” he called. “Dad, are you there?”
A noise from Saul and Ezekiel’s bedroom: clothes hangers falling, a dresser drawer slamming.
Diego jumped over a mirror on the floor, a chair that was missing all four of its legs.
There were holes in the walls, as if someone had punched through and torn something out.
When he came to the bedroom, the door was on its hinges.
Diego’s breath caught. “Why are you here?”
Ezekiel wiped at his bloodshot eyes. He was slumped on the bed. “He’s gone,” he mumbled.
“What do you mean?”
Ezekiel paused. He looked at Diego, seeming to realize he wasn’t alone. Then his step- father broke down and started to cry.
They stood in the kitchen, facing each other.
“Why would the DRP have come for my dad? It should have been you.”
Ezekiel winced. “He didn’t want me to tell you.”
“Tell me what?” said Diego.
“You noticed how frail, how weak, he had become?”
Diego just nodded.
“Well, that’s a symptom, sometimes, of separation. When you take a god out and try to put it back in, it happens that the pieces don’t fit like they used to. We tried, but your father’s body couldn’t accept it.”
“Why would he do that?”
His step-father whispered, “I think you know the answer.”
He didn’t want to say it, didn’t want to admit it. His father was a god-killer, just like Ezekiel.
“Does that mean the two of you want Mrakau to die?”
Ezekiel spluttered. “No! Of course not! Your father separated when he left you and your mother, when he realized he wasn’t the person he thought. He blamed it on Mrakau, for corrupting his soul. The same as I had done.” Ezekiel sighed. “I tried to convince him that Mrakau wasn’t to blame, that society had guided him away from himself. We tried to reinstate, to put the god back in his chest. But it never fully worked. I think it was from all of the guilt that he carried.”
Guilt. Diego knew too well what that felt like. “So, the soul in the wall wasn’t yours. It was his. And now the DRP has him.”
“Well, not exactly.” Ezekiel kicked at a plate on the floor. “Somehow, he got a heads-up that they were coming. He must have left after I took you to school.”
“Then he’s probably nearby.”
“No,” said Ezekiel. “He should have gone as far and as quickly as he could. The DRP will hunt him. They’ll use him as an example.”
Diego’s shoulders sagged. This was all his fault. Diego was as much of a god-killer as they were. He had murdered what was left of the illusion of their family.
He pushed off from the counter. “We have to go find him.”
“How?” said Ezekiel. “I don’t know where he went.”
Diego started walking. “I have an idea.”
Margo was waiting as they stepped off the L-train. “Took you long enough.”
“Thanks for helping,” said Diego.
“No problem,” said Margo, glaring at Ezekiel. “Though I don’t know why I should be helping one of them.”
They hurried through a protest that had spilled into the Castro. When they came to the edge of the park, they stopped.
A barricade of people was in front of the school. They stood with their arms linked, blocking the steps that led up to the auditorium.
“Follow me,” said Margo. She shouldered her way into an older man’s belly and bounced right back.
“Get out of here, kid. The school’s under lockdown.” He squeezed against the people that were linked at his elbows.
“But we need to get in!”
The man didn’t answer; he chanted along with the rest of the crowd. “No DRP! Down with the worm!”
Ezekiel pulled Margo back towards the street. “We shouldn’t be here,” he said. “It’s getting out of control.”
“No way,” said Diego, “we’re going inside.” But when the three of them tried again, the blockade repelled them.
“We can find another way,” said Ezekiel, panting. “Come on, lets—”
His voice disappeared. It was replaced by another, the wail of the drill-horn; it erupted from every street corner in the city, coating the Bay in a low-bass moan. A death-cry that drowned out everything else. It rose to an octave that Diego didn’t recognize.
And this time, it didn’t stop.
Diego covered his ears.
The line of rabble-rousers did exactly the opposite. They raised their arms and added to the chaos. “Death to Mrakau! Kill the false god!”
It seemed that the enemy had gotten its wish. Somewhere, the worm god was finally dead.
“Let’s go!” said Ezekiel, pulling on Diego. “If Mrakau is really gone, they’re going to riot.”
His step-father was right. Plenty of people were frantically cheering. But just as many others in the park were distraught. They yelled, charged, fought in disbelief.
What’s going to happen when Mrakau really dies? Diego heard Margo’s voice echo in his head. Would they die too, the ones still faithful? The ones that still carried his essence in their chests? Or would they wither away like the god of the Testament? No one could know.
And right now, they didn’t have the patience to find out.
A group of those partial to Mrakau broke the line.
“Diego!” Ezekiel let go of his hand. “You and Margo, go!” He turned around and punched one of the rebels in the jaw. Diego hesitated. His legs felt numb.
Margo caught his hand. “Are you going to move?” She pulled him from Ezekiel, who was holding the line so that the two of them could pass.
Diego trailed Margo. He tripped—nearly fell—as they wound through the empty auditorium’s aisles, down the main hallway, and into the classroom with the microdrile tanks.
Margo ran over to the first of the tanks. She laid a finger on her chest. “Like this,” she said, and a thin, white thread wriggled out from her skin. “Remember that a god is attracted to itself.”
Diego did the same. He focused on a worm, a finger to his chest, but nothing came out.
His fingertip was bare. “Why isn’t it working?”
“I’m not sure,” said Margo. “Are you focused enough?”
“Yes,” growled Diego.
“Here, try again. Think of your dad on the other side of the tank.”
“Okay,” said Diego.
“Now, concentrate,” said Margo.
Diego did his best. He tried to drown out the moan of the siren, the chanting that was bleeding from the park into the school. This was his fault. He had to fix it.
“There!” said Margo.
Diego cracked an eyelid. A silvery thread dangled over his finger, winding and wiggling just like a worm. He gaped. “Now what?”
“Focus,” said Margo. “Picture the piece of Mrakau in the worm, and imagine it finding the piece in your dad.”
But Diego stalled. He lowered his finger. “Wait,” he whispered, and he took a step back.
“I don’t think it’ll work.”
“Why not?” said Margo.
“My dad separated from Mrakau, remember? How can my soul find a god that isn’t there?”
“Oh,” said Margo.
They stared at the glass.
“What if you thought of a different kind of god? One that you shared in the times before?”
He knew what she meant—the kind that she had lost, the one that her parents had destroyed when they had left. The kind that Diego had worshiped in his youth, when he still had a family. He had buried what was left of that god in the divorce.
And yet, the last few weeks hadn’t been so bad. His step-father wasn’t the monster he’d imagined, and his father had shown that he regretted his actions. Maybe a piece of that god was still in him.
And maybe—just maybe—it could be reborn.
Diego put a trembling finger to his chest. He thought of the good times, the laughter they had shared, when Saul and his mother weren’t screaming at each other—the movie nights hiding in a blanket on the sofa, the summers at the pool, the weekend cartoons, all of the pieces that had made up his home. He thought of these things, resurrected the past, and with it came something that had felt long dead.
He opened his eyes, and his finger was glowing.
“The worm,” whispered Margo, “use the worm as a vessel.”
The two of them watched as a god came to life, from so many years in the darkness of his heart. He did it again, and again, and again, until each of the worms in the tank was aglow.
He scooped them all out, put them in a pail, and hurried outside to the back of the school.
Margo upended the pail in the grass, and they watched as the worms disappeared in the dirt.
Just as the last worm wriggled away, Diego sat down, and he began to pray.
The worms had been searching for most of the day, and Diego had started to abandon hope. He was tired, and sore, and in need of a bath, and Margo and Ezekiel weren’t faring much better. The three of them had walked across half of San Francisco, and everywhere they went was the same: a dead-end.
That is, until they started to climb up Market Street, and straggle all the way through the forest of Mount Sutro. The sun had long set, and the only light that came was from the twenty-three worms. Who, after splitting into twenty-three directions, had coalesced into a single path, leading them up to the base of the tower.
Diego thought about what Ezekiel had told him. A god had once crawled up this very same hill, wrapping its tail around the prongs of the tower.
Now, his father was there, hiding in the dark.
Saul crept out from the base of the tower. He stopped at the point where the shadows met the moonlight.
Diego felt Ezekiel pat him on the shoulder. Margo squeezed his hand, like his mother had before. And despite all the tension of the last few years, seeing his father made him feel like a kid again, desperate for the comfort of the god they once shared. And it outweighed the dregs of the resentment he harbored for the soul in the wall, for Ezekiel’s presence, for all of his once unforgivable transgressions. Now, with Saul in front of him, those things were insignificant. He was ready to forgive. He was ready to move on.
He walked towards his father, feeling the ripples of a deity forming. He wrapped a sweaty arm around the man’s frail waist, and he looked up and smiled. “Hi, dad,” he said. Only two simple words. But within them was the promise of a family reforged.
Saul hugged him back. “I missed you, mijo.”
Diego let the phone drop away from his ear. “Mom, it’s okay, you don’t have to worry.”
“Worry? Diego, I’m more than just worried. Mrakau is dead, and we don’t know why.
And Ezekiel said that your father is missing? You’re living alone with that… that man?”
Diego cut her off. “Mom, it’s alright, he’s not that bad. And dad isn’t missing. We know where he is.”
But she didn’t seem to care. “You can stay with your Aunt Analisa in Maryland.”
Diego put the speaker right up to his lips. “No,” he said.
“But, mijo, I—”
“Mom.” He took a deep breath. “I’m going to stay here, with Ezekiel, for a while. I want to be around for when dad comes back. I want him to have a piece of home to look forward to.”
Ryan Cole is a speculative fiction writer who lives in Virginia with his husband and snuggly pug child. He is a winner of the 2021 Writers of the Future Contest, and his work has appeared or is forthcoming in Ember Journal, Voyage Journal, Metaphorosis and the Bram Stoker Award-nominated anthology Mother: Tales of Love and Terror (Weird Little Worlds Press). Find out more at www.ryancolewrites.com.