The Crippled God

them. Disgusted with them. I don’t want what we had , Errastas.’
    ‘But I do, Setch.’
    ‘And you are welcome to it.’
    ‘What of your children?’
    ‘What of them?’
    ‘Where do you see Oponn in the world to come?’
    ‘I don’t see them anywhere,’ Sechul Lath said.
    Errastas drew a sharp breath. ‘You will kill them?’
    ‘What I made I can unmake.’
    ‘Your words please me, Knuckles. Indeed, I am relieved.’
    It wasn’t much of a life, my children, was it? I doubt you will object overmuch. Prod and pull, yes, but in the end – after thousands and thousands of years of that pathetic game – what is achieved? Learned? By anyone?
    Chance is a miserable bitch, a hard bastard. It shows a smile, but it is a wolf’s smile. What is learned? Only that every ambition must kneel to that which cannot be anticipated. And you can duck and dodge for only so long. It’ll take you down in the end .
    A man slips the noose. A civilization steps from the path of its own hubris. Once. Twice. Thrice even. But what of the twentieth time? The fiftieth? Triumph falters. It always does. There was never a balance .
    After all, common sense will tell you, it’s far easier to push than it is to pull .
    ‘How does Kilmandaros feel,’ Errastas asked, ‘about killing her own children?’
    Sechul Lath glanced over at his mother, and then back at his companion. ‘Don’t you understand anything, Errastas? She doesn’t feel anything.’
    After a moment, the lone eye shied away.
    Now I think you understand .
    What does the child want, that you did not have first? What do you own that the child does not want? Badalle had awoken this morning with these questions echoing in her head. The voice was a woman’s, and then a man’s. Both delivered in the same abject tones of despair.
    She sat in the sun’s light as it bled in from the window, banishing the chill in her bones as would a lizard or a serpent, and struggled to understand the night’s visions, the dark, disturbing voices of strangers saying such terrible things.
    It is what is passed on, I suppose. I think I see that .
    She glanced over to where Saddic sat on the floor, his collection of useless objects arrayed around him, a lost look on his oddly wrinkled face. Like an old man with his life’s treasure. Only he’s forgotten how to count .
    But what they owned, what they had, was not necessarily a good thing, a thing of virtue. Sometimes, what they had was poison, and the child’s hunger knew no different. How could it? And so the crimes passed on, from one generation to the next. Until they destroy us. Yes , I see that now. My dreams are wise, wiser than me. My dreams sing the songs of the Quitters, clever in argument, subtle in persuasion .
    My dreams are warning me .
    She turned away from the sun’s light and faced the chamber. ‘Is everyone ready?’
    Saddic looked up guiltily, and then nodded.
    Badalle twisted back and leaned out on the window ledge, craning round in order to see the western end of the plaza. Rutt was there, with Held in his arms. Others waited in the shadows of the surrounding buildings, as if figures on friezes had stepped out from their stone worlds.
    It was just as well. They’d eaten all the fruit on the city’s trees.
    And the crystal was stealing our souls .
    ‘Then it is time. Leave those things behind, Saddic.’
    Instead, he began gathering them up.
    A flash of anger hissed through Badalle, followed by fear. She didn’t understand either. Sighing, she dropped down from the ledge. ‘There will be Shards. Diamonds, Rubies and Opals. We will begin dying again.’
    The boy looked at her with knowing eyes.
    She sighed a second time. ‘There are fathers among us now. We must watch them carefully, Saddic, in case they find father thoughts.’
    To that he shook his head, as if to deny her words. ‘No, Badalle,’ he said in his broken voice. ‘They just care for the young ones.’
    So few words from you, Saddic. I’d thought you mute. What other things awaken in you, behind those old man’s eyes, that old man’s face?
    She left the room. Saddic followed, his bag of useless things in his arms like a newborn babe. Down the sharp-edged steps, through the cool air of the hidden corridors, and then outside, into the blinding heat. Badalle walked without hesitation to where stood Rutt, who now watched her approach with hooded eyes. As she drew closer, the other children edged into the sunlight, clumped in their makeshift