Egg wrote.
Or rather, she scribbled words on papyrus, frowned, then crossed them out.
The Almighty Penguin waddled into the distance, Egg scribbled, nearly tearing the page with the ink-wet tip of her quill. And like a pastry at dessert, it vanished gradually, until it was finally gone.
She eased back, swept her bushy black hair from her eyes, admired the words for a moment, then shook her head and slashed them.
Like a pastry at dessert? That was a weird simile. Maybe she was just hungry. And waddling off into the sunset? Too cliche. (Not so much the waddling part, but still.) This was the summation of a year’s work, the final line of her first book. It needed to be memorable, moving, and above all, not crappy. So Egg tried a new closing line instead.
“We’ll meet again, child,” said the Almighty Penguin. “Someday soon.”
No. No no no. She slashed that, too. Made it seem like she was setting up a sequel, and she hated when authors did that. So presumptuous. At least let readers ask for another before you go forcing it on them.
“Subtle,” she whispered to the parchment. “We need to be more subtle. And maybe even a little profound, if we can swing it.”
“Excuse me?” someone asked.
Egg bolted upright and threw on her most genial smile. The someone who’d spoken was a man seated in the sand beside her, a round and jowly type who smelled slightly of ale. They’d met a few hours prior, but Egg had already forgotten his name. Boffer, maybe. Or Boofer?
“Who are you talking to, girl?” the man asked.
“Well, Mr., um…Boogler…” Egg began, then thought better of answering truthfully and finished with, “…I was just warming up my voice. For the call-and-answer bit.”
“It’s Bowler,” the man snapped. “Mayor Bowler. And what are you writing about, anyway?”
You’re awfully nosy, Mayor Bowler, Egg thought, though she didn’t say it. Instead, she tried her smile again. “Just, umm, taking notes.” She waved toward the makeshift dais before them, where the Holy Devoted was busy reading some story of self-righteous dopes from a chunky book called The Everything. It was the only book Egg could ever remember disliking.
Bowler glowered at the stack of papyrus mounted atop Egg’s lap. “That’s a lot of notes.”
It’s been a long service, she thought. Two hours, according to a nearby hourglass, and the Holy Devoted had only just gotten to the introduction of the Ageless bit. Bowler gave her a parting snort before returning his attention to the oration.
Around them dozed a lazy little town, just a pleasant smattering of sun-baked houses. It took Egg a moment to recall the name of said town, but a glance to the west reminded her.
Plainwall. So named, presumably, because of the looming western wall that provided shade from the omnipresent (I’m being literal here) sun. Not the most creative name for a town, but it was just down the road from a city called Buystuff, so what could you expect?
On the dais before them (actually a creaky wooden box, but “dais” sounded fancier), Holy Devoted Sarene graced the boiling morning air with her voice, enunciating every syllable with precision and clarity. Her reading was flawless as ever. If only her material was less boring.
“And so Lira, Goddess of Order, and Florinioniorius, God of Creation, had 10 children,” Sarene intoned. “And those 10 children, along with their mother and father, would be the foremost of the Ageless, the Greater Gods and Goddesses. They would be the Dozen.”
“The Dozen,” the gathering repeated.
“And many more Ageless would be born of Lira and Florinioniorius, and though they would be divine as well, they would be known as the Lesser Gods and Goddesses.”
“The Lesser,” the gathering repeated.
“And so all the Ageless, both the Dozen and the Lesser, do guide the lives of mortals. They do make our world whole.”
“They make our world whole,” the gathering repeated.
“With the exception of Hylus, God of the Sun,” Sarene clarified, “who hasn’t allowed our holy sun to set in decades, and shall not allow it until we humans prove our worth.”
“Until we prove our worth,” the gathering repeated.
Egg, by the way, wasn’t listening to any of this. It was too nice a day. The sun was fat and bloated as ever, but it was hidden for now, and a handful of puffy white clouds floated above. The sand beneath her bottom was blistering, as usual, but at least she had a blanket to sit on. And a songbird had appeared, settling on the eave of a nearby house. It trilled, then departed. Egg tried and failed to suppress her jealousy.
Anyway, back to writing. She started by twirling her quill around and around, like a real, honest-to-goodness writer must do. Unfortunately, when she looked down, she realized she’d splattered ink across the topmost page.
Oh dear, she thought.
She fumbled the quill and dropped it, which stained the papyrus further, plus got ink on her robes.
Oh shit, she thought.
She scooted to retrieve the quill, which displaced the stack of parchment upon her lap. It slipped off and scattered everywhere, fluttering away like so many leaves, and in her haste to catch them, she kicked the ink pot seated beside her. It tumbled across the sand, leaving a black smear in its wake. Droplets of ink spattered everyone seated too close—including Bowler. The town’s Mayor.
“Oh fuck.”
She thought she’d thought that. But when she felt eyes on her—several dozen pairs of them—she realized she hadn’t. Those words had slipped out.
The entire village of Plainwall, all here for the oration. All staring at her.
She rose. She tried summoning her genial smile but managed only a guilty grimace. The stares had turned to glares, from Mr. Bowler and the other ink-stained townsfolk, the clean ones too, and…
Egg gulped. And Holy Devoted Sarene.
There was no Goddess of Disapproval, but if there was, she probably would’ve taken the form of the Holy Devoted. Sarene was stern and severe with a heron’s build and differently colored eyes: one brown, one blue. Her scalp was completely shaven, revealing a smooth head with a halo of runic tattoos—12 of them, each representing one of the Dozen Gods and Goddesses.
“Child,” Sarene said. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Egg tried to speak, but the sound came out a sputter.
“She’s taking notes,” Mayor Bowler offered. “Allegedly.”
The Devoted did not react. She didn’t even blink. “You’ve made an unholy mess, Zeggara. Have you anything to say for yourself?”
“Yes. I have something to say for myself. I say I’d rather be writing than sitting here, because writing makes me happier than sitting around every week for hours on end, listening to stories I don’t believe in and participating in rituals I don’t care for. I say that maybe I believe in something else, or would at least like the opportunity to do so. Also, I say you’re overstating the state of this mess—I’ve done worse. That’s what I say.”
…Well, that’s what Egg would’ve said, if she’d had the courage. But she didn’t. Instead, she squeaked three words:
“I don’t know.”
Holy Devoted Sarene was intimidating enough. It didn’t help that she also happened to be Egg’s mother.
#
By the time the gathering dispersed, morning had turned to afternoon (not that you’d know it by looking at the sun; it hadn’t moved an inch, nor would it).
Nonetheless, the people of Plainwall returned to their houses, and Egg and her mother retired to their current home: Plainwall’s inn.
Up in their room, Sarene seated herself behind a desk. Egg sat across from her, beside a breezeless window. The ink-stained manuscript laid between them.
“So.” Egg’s mother flipped through the pages, examining them like scraps of food on the verge of spoiling. “Explain this.”
“It’s a book,” said Egg. Her eyes flicked to the candle flame dancing beside her manuscript. (Candles—and flames in general—became obsolete once the sun stopped setting, but you could still find them if you tried.)
“I see that. What sort of book?”
A good one, Egg thought. But she said, “I don’t know.”
Her mother pursed her lips and ran a finger along Egg’s tangled handwriting. “What would your father think of this?”
He’d love it. He’d at least give it a chance. “I…I don’t know.”
“Please stop telling me what you don’t know, Zeggara.” She fixed her differently colored eyes upon her daughter. “An anthropomorphic penguin?”
“It’s fiction,” Egg blurted. “Meant to provoke thought and reflection. You don’t have to take it literally.”
“Then explain it to me.”
Egg looked away. “You won’t like it.”
The edge of the Holy Devoted’s lip ticked up ruefully. “I don’t expect to.”
“It’s a story about a penguin who arrives in a town and teaches people how to be more penguin-like. They toboggan, feast on fish, and swim together in rafts. Did you know a pack of swimming penguins was called a ‘raft,’ mother?”
“I did not.”
“Well, it was. The point I’m trying to make is…” People have the right to live their lives however they want to. And maybe a penguin is just as good a deity as your Ageless. But Egg swallowed and instead finished, “I like penguins.”
“I can see that.” Her mother flipped to the front page and read, “Grand Teachings of the Almighty Penguin. Is that what I’m supposed to call this?”
“It’s a working title.”
Her mother sighed. “How long have you been writing it?”
“A year.”
The Holy Devoted shook her bald head. “And all that time you could’ve been reading your Everything. You could’ve been studying for your Devotion.”
The Everything was the holy book of the Ageless, and the Devotion was a ritual in which mortals pledged their lives to said Ageless to become (you guessed it) Holy Devoted. Devotion involved getting tattoos representing the Dozen, plus some sort of quiz and a public declaration. Truth be told, Egg was fuzzy on the details.
But Devotion wasn’t Egg’s passion in life. Writing was. It was the one skill she considered herself halfway decent at (aside from her abilities to forget names and spill things). She’d been writing constantly, ever since she was young. Granted, Grand Teachings of the Almighty Penguin was the first story she’d ever even come close to finishing, and some of her previous projects had been unimpressive at best. But she had written them. And writing remained her passion, despite her mother’s tireless attempts to replace it with religion.
“I just want to write, mother.”
Sarene offered no answer. Instead, she gathered the papers, flipped through them with her thumb. She sighed heavily. “There is only one book you should be studying, Zeggara. You know what I must do with this one.” Her gaze slid to the candle flame.
“Please.” Egg didn’t want to cry in front of her mother, but she feared she might, if it came to this. “You can’t.”
“I must. There is no Goddess of Penguins, Zeggara. We’ve traveled to this town to bring the teachings of the Ageless to its people. Not some fanciful tale of flying creatures.”
“Swimming.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Penguins didn’t fly—they swam. They were aquatic flightless birds.”
Egg’s mother rubbed at the tattoos on her bare scalp. “As you say, child. I know little of extinct species.”
“And it’s satire,” Egg added, her sudden courage taking her by surprise. “The point isn’t to present an alternative religion. It’s to poke fun at religion itself.”
Her mother’s mismatched eyes suddenly looked pained. “That cannot be, my daughter. Our faith is everything to us. It should be everything to you. Why do you think the sun never sets, hmm? Why do you think it dries our grounds and burns our backs? It’s because we aren’t devoted enough. We don’t believe enough. So if you truly want to become a Devoted, Zeggara, you must set aside this writing and focus on what truly matters.”
That’s what you want, mother, Egg thought. Not what I want.
It was unsurprising, anyway. Ever since she’d given herself to the Ageless, Egg’s mother had warned all about what wasn’t allowed. Egg wasn’t even sure she could have dessert without permission from the Ageless—not that it ever stopped her.
“Mother…” You’re missing the point. You’re preventing people from thinking for themselves. What if my book gave them a new perspective on their belief? What if it made them laugh, instead of feeling guilty or fearful?
She wanted to say that to her mother, and more. But she couldn’t. “Please. It’s just a book.”
“Books have power. This book you’ve written, Zeggara. It’s blasphemous.”
“Have you even read it?”
“I’ve read enough. For your sake, I must do this.” Her mother leaned toward the candle.
“Wait!” Egg cried. She wasn’t exactly sure what they were waiting for, but the answer came to her suddenly. “Let me do it, mother. I…I’ll do it.”
Sarene hesitated, holding the pages mere inches above the flickering candle. “You shall?”
“I must. It needs to be destroyed, burned, obliterated, all that. Just what blasphemy deserves, am I right?” She forced a chuckle, wishing she was better at lying. “I’m the one who created it. I should be the one to destroy it.”
The Holy Devoted gave her daughter a wary look. “If you say you’ll do this, you must not balk. I’m trusting you, child.”
Egg offered her most trustworthy smile. “You can count on me, mother. I just need a day to say goodbye. After that, I’ll destroy it. I swear it by…by the Ageless themselves.”
It hurt to make a promise she wasn’t sure she could keep. But her mother’s sudden smile hurt worse. It was one of the few times Egg could ever remember her mother looking proud of her.
“Believe in something, Zeggara. It will save you, in this life and the next.” She passed the manuscript across the desk, then patted her daughter on the hand. “You’re doing the right thing.”
Egg hugged her manuscript. “Thank you,” she said. But what she really meant was, Thank you for helping me finish my book.
#
Sunlight found her on the creaking front steps of the inn. The village was quiet, the stagnant air still, and Egg’s left hand itched to write. She drew her quill from her pocket, wetted it, then flipped to the back of her book and scribbled one final, fading line. It went like this:
“Believe in something,” said the Almighty Penguin, “so long as it makes you happy.”
“You’re finally finished,” Egg whispered to her book, planting a wet kiss upon the page. Her lips were probably black now, but whatever. “And now…I have to kill you.”
She’d promised it, sworn it, vowed it, both to the Ageless and her mother. Could she really break that promise?
Her eyes drifted to the horizon, to the gleaming spires in the distance. There loomed the city of Buystuff, the villagers had said. They called it the commerce capital of the world, the place where one could find any people or products there were to find. Hunters and diggers, jewelers and smiths, wanderers and soldiers, monarchs and peasants, writers and…
…And publishers…
“What do I do now?” Egg asked her manuscript. But she already knew the answer.
Kyle A. Massa is a speculative fiction author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their cats, and their dog. He has written two books and numerous short stories, both published and yet-to-be published. He enjoys unusual narrative structures, multiple POVs, and stories that make readers laugh. For a free sample of Kyle’s work, subscribe to his newsletter.
© Kyle A. Massa, 2020. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be duplicated or distributed in any form or by any means without expressed written consent from the author.
