If you’re in the mood to catch a serial at the beginning, I’ve launched The Lost Years this week as well.
|Image source: openclipart.org|
They were not gods, but neither were they mortal. To such as you or I, the distinctions are not terribly significant. They watch. They judge.
Sometimes, they intervene.
Two were sent to watch us. As it is with gods, they chose a mountaintop as their dwelling place, and they made themselves human bodies, that they might interact with us where needed.
But not being true gods, there was a mistake. Both had planned to live as men, but their handlers misinterpreted the genetic blueprints, and both found themselves in the bodies of women, full and ripe.
“We can make it right,” the handlers assured them, “but we will do it one at a time.”
“Let it be so,” said the gods, and it was done.
But before the handlers could repeat the change, the human bodies, male and female, looked at each other and at the gods within. They came together and joined.
God-like sex is exhausting to a human body, but bodies recover with rest. The gods watched, coupled, rested.
As a disguise, the gods’ mountaintop home was a rustic general store. The lonely road that snaked past was once the primary highway, but now the interstate went around (and through) the mountain. These days, motorcycles and the occasional RV made up most of the traffic.
One afternoon, the gods lay exhausted in their bed, after a particularly satisfying romp. A screech, then a crunch, penetrated their sleep.
“What was that?”
“We have to see.”
The gods forced their weary human bodies out of bed, and into clothes. They shuffled into and through the public part of their dwelling, and out the door.
A small car rested against one of the concrete pillars that guarded the old gasoline pumps, long disused. The fender was crumpled, and steam rose from the front of the car. Behind them, skid marks showed their path; perhaps the driver was distracted and missed the curve. The doors were open, and two young men were surveying the damage.
“Is everyone all right?” the god in the woman’s body asked.
The men’s heads snapped around, their eyes riveted on the woman. “Uh—yeah, we’re okay,” they stammered. “Sorry about the damage. I guess we’ll need to use your phone to call a tow truck. I can’t get a signal up here.”
“It’s not that bad,” the god in the man’s body assured them.
“Are you serious?” They stopped. “No offense, but the radiator’s busted, and the fender’s smashed up against the tire. No way we can drive it.” They spoke to the man, but looked at the woman.
Worshippers could be useful, they thought to each other.
“Come inside,” the woman said, and they followed her willingly. The other god made sure they were out of sight, then moved the car away. The crumpled fender straightened, leaving a scuff and a small dent. Radiator fluid ceased to hiss, and that which puddled beneath dried away, leaving only the scent of ethylene glycol. By the time all was finished, both young men were exhausted—and entirely devoted to their service.
The two young men reluctantly took their leave, but were invited to return whenever they could. They brought offerings of books, magazines, music, video, and anything else requested of them. They were granted the power to repair their vehicle as necessary, if another mishap befell them, and they used their power to heal the cars of the poor. Quietly, they spread the word.
Gods live among us.
They watch. They judge.
If they must, they will intervene.