†
Adnihilo reclined on the worn corners of the parish stairs. It was cold and quiet in the evening air, and the last traces of warmth had faded from the sandstone as he searched the sky for stars. There were none, and even the light of the moon could not part the clouds that blotted out the night. So he looked to the west where the sun had set and wondered what might lie over the horizon. Just desert and death, his mother’s lessons reminded him. Kill the boy.
Footsteps crept from behind.
“Lord, it feels like winter already,” exclaimed Adam. He plopped beside his friend and sat quiet for a while, gazing into the clouds. Minutes passed in silence. The steps grew cold, and still not a star shone in the sky. The pastor’s son sighed, “I don’t know if I can do it.”
“Do what?”
“Lead the flock like Father does.”
Adnihilo sat up. “Why are you worried about that? You’ve got years before then.”
“Not if we get those chapels. I know he’ll want me to do the services.”
“And you’ll do great.”
Adam stood and mussed his blonde hair. “No I won’t. You saw me in there. I made myself into a fool.” He sat back on the stairs and stared toward the sky. “God help me.”
“You want to change places?”
“What, you the pastor and me the sacrifice? I wouldn’t last a day.”
Adnihilo rubbed his bruised leg. “You’d do better than you think. Have you had the chance to ask about it yet?”
“About what?”
“The sword.”
Adam shook his head. “I was hoping I could ask him tonight if the feast went well, but I probably just spoiled the whole thing. I’m such an idiot… but what about you? Heard anything about the Pit?”
“I don’t know if I want to do it anymore.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why? It’s not your fault.”
Adam jumped up again. “Yes it is. I should have talked with father about what to say, and then I made everything worse with my stupid questions, and—”
“Adam,” The Messah paused, “It’s not your fault. I promise. I just…” He looked to the sky, saw the moon peeking through. “I don’t know.”
“Only God knows,” The pastor’s son replied. The clouds were parting, and they scanned their surroundings in the dull light. “So, did you see that new girl at Amsah’s today?”
“New girl? No, dammit, what’d I miss?”
Adam glanced over his shoulders. “She was in the alley right before Cain and Jezebel came around. Mixed-blood girl, sandy blonde hair and this thin silk dress—I swear to the Lord of lords—you could see everything right through—I mean everything.”
“You going to tell me what everything looked like?” The half-blood stood up and punched his friend in the arm.
“Alright, alright,” Adam chuckled, but then his eyes flitted toward the lighted horizon. “Those aren’t rain clouds, are they?” he asked, gaping at the smoky tide rolling over the northern sky. “Or, you don’t think… a dust storm?”
“This time of year?”
The Messah squinted but seemed no more certain. “Come on, we should tell Father.”
†
Inside the parish, Messah and Impii were uprooted from their seats, limbs gesturing in gossip like branches in the wind. Cain and Jezebel were on their feet as well when the half-blood and pastor’s son spotted them. They had not migrated far from the end of their table, but the pastor himself was nowhere to be found.
Adam asked after his father as soon as they reached the couple. The sacrifice neither answered nor even seemed to hear. He sat facing outward on the bench, goblet in hand filled to the brim with wine, neck hanging and shoulders rounded.
The singer shook her head. “He walked off to talk with the other pastor right after you left.” She glanced around the hall, arms crossed and nails digging into her skin—feeding Adnihilo’s nervousness. She asked, “Is something wrong?”
“Father should have started the closing prayers by now,” the Messah murmured to himself, Then to Jezebel, “I think a dust storm is blowing this way. You said there was another pastor?”
Adnihilo interjected. “I saw him come in.”
“They’ll be in the office, then. We should let everyone know before somebody—”
“Don’t waste your breath, boy. There are no dust storms during the rain-season.” His cup empty, Cain got up and grabbed Jezebel by the arm. “Come Adnihilo. We’re leaving.”
“Already? But what about—”
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” the sacrifice warned, and any time before that would’ve been enough. But not today, not after what Adnihilo saw between him and the pastor. It stoked something defiant inside of him, some spirit of rebellion.
The half-blood steeled himself to face his mentor, nearly daring enough to look him in the eye—nearly, but not quite as he asserted, “We saw the clouds ourselves. They looked too low to be—” He felt the sting of a fist against his ear. Jezebel gasped, but the sacrifice spoke louder.
“It’s just rain, boy. I didn’t teach you to be a coward.” He grabbed the half-blood’s chin, ripping invisible hairs with his calloused fingers as he forced him upright. “Didn’t teach you to talk like one, either. Stand up straight. Don’t let them see you leave hunched like a cripple.”
“Get off me,” Adnihilo murmured. His voice was water and his nostrils driveled, but he refused to acknowledge it dripping onto his lips. “I said get off!” He bore his teeth, wound his arm, and swung hard as he could for the sacrifice’s abdomen. But when the half-blood’s fist hit the wall of muscle, the only thing hurt was his wrist. Then tears poured on top his shame and his anger. He broke from Cain, calling, “Come on, Adam. Let’s go.”
The Messah hesitated, afraid the sacrifice was about to scold his student or hit him again until Jezebel lunged between them. Under the cover of their bickering, he led his friend away from
