myth for wintercress

They say gods are free, but they are more than that. They are the wind, the mountain, the river. They are the ocean.

They have freedom and responsibility in equal measure - because there is little separating the two. We need gods, and in a small way, they appreciate us as we give them names and thanks. We give them our stories and entertainment.

The problem of the grass men felt so big it consumed all space and time. Saving the villagers was in the realm of a god. And no other god, but the brilliant golden one of the symmetrical streets and punishing works seemed to come.

Sweetie’s mother’s name was Lo. She reminded herself of that because she was exhausted. She tended the fire every day and took the bread out when the alarm sounded. The grass people left nothing to chance.

She came to her cell to sleep. She was so tired her thoughts were frayed and she felt she was going insane. Time folded up. Purpose folded into something so very small she could barely reach outside of herself. One day she found that she could burn her hand with a piece of charred bread. She started writing on her arms. It didn’t feel good but it felt like power. She would write and then throw the charred bread back into the fire to burn. The flames purred. Those ashes would smolder and fly up, rising on the wind and fell onto the ground warming the dead place, covered in snow with orbs of gold. Wintercress, they became. One evening an ember felling the ear of the shadow man, who had been sitting outside of Pearl’s window waiting for her to come out. At first it hit his forehead and he stood there like a star wandering the earth, then it alit and started to bloom inside of him, defining his features. He smelled cold and fresh. He plucked a leaf from his cheek and tucked the blooming flowers beneath his hat, and he smiled and walked into the bar next door when he recognized his transformation. If anyone was not looking too carefully, they might think he was a grass official. The only way you would know him was the gust of cool wind that came with him, and the crickets that followed him. The way a leaf would sprout here or there from his body. He was incomplete, but he had a different shape.

They say chaos from a great distance looks like storms or butterfly wings. That’s a bit like what the air behind him looked like. But no one saw. It was obscured in the cobblestones on the street as he walked, or tucked along his back. Or playing along the walls in his own shadow as he walked through the days.