Dreaming The God

DREAMING

THE

GOD

An Anthology

Edited by

Karen Dales

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Dreaming the God

Copyright © 2023

Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-928104-33-9

eISBN:978-1-928104-32-2

Cover Art © by Peter Williams

Cover Design © by Evan Dales

WAV Design Studios

www.wavstudios.ca

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of Dark Dragon Publishing except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

The cover art of this book may not be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including, photocopying, scanning or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of Peter Williams.

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Dark Dragon Publishing

88 Charleswood Drive

Toronto, Ontario

M3H 1X6

CANADA

www.darkdragonpublishing.com

This exciting and much-needed anthology reawakens the voices of some of the oldest Gods... Diverse authors skilfully evoke Him… offering us a new look at some of His many faces… and one for every Pagan’s bookshelf. ~ Melissa Seims, Author of Here Be Magick.

… engaging and vibrant… belongs on every Pagan bookshelf… the tales within will take you on a journey from ancient history to contemporary times to meet the God in many different forms. ~ Moira Hodgkinson, Co-Author of Operation Cone of Power.

DREAMING

THE

GOD

An Anthology

Edited by

Karen Dales

Dark Dragon Publishing

Toronto, Ontario, Canada

Contents

INTRODUCTION

Karen Dales

DEVIL THE GREEK

Glenn Bresciani

I JOURNEY THE BACK OF A SNAKE

Stephen B. Pearl

THE LANGUAGE OF THE SKY

Ross W. Carter

THE MEMORY OF TREES

Moira Scott

AN AXE FOR MEN

Rosemary Edghill

EPIK FLAYL CREATES THE WOR(L)D… AGAIN

Ira Nayman

BETWEEN FIRE AND INFINITY

James Dick

INHERITANCE

Seth Augenstein

THE LAST GASP OF WAR

L.A. Selby

THE WEATHER WAR

Jeff Provine

THE GUEST

Karen Dales

DAWN OF SPRING

Ralph Mack

ABOUT THE EDITOR

For all the Hidden Children of the God.

INTRODUCTION

TWO YEARS AGO, DREAMING THE GODDDESS was published. When I was working on Dreaming The Goddess, I had planned on doing a companion anthology, which you are now holding: Dreaming The God.

It took a little longer than I expected to get this anthology out. That’s what happens when life and responsibilities can get in the way. The other aspect as to why it took two years to publish Dreaming The God is that, despite the very clear expression of intent of this anthology being a representation of many different gods from around the world, I received many stories that were rooted in Christianity and Jesus. Though those stories were interesting, they did not fit with the paradigm that had been set up with Dreaming The Goddess, which was to showcase stories of non-Abrahamic masculine deities found throughout the world. Despite having to issue rejection emails to those who sent me Christian/Jesus/Abrahamic faith based stories, I did receive some exceptional stories, which you will find within the pages of this book.

I am also pleased to have several of our authors from Dreaming The Goddess return to write stories for this anthology. Moira Scott has written a wonderful piece, steeped in legend and history; Stephen B. Pearl has given an introspective look into one’s experience with moving from one life to the next; Ira Nayman’s amazing humour in revealing the archetype of The Trickster; James Dick’s exploration of two Slavic Gods and their relationship with one another; and of course, the brilliant Rosemary Edghill whose story was initially published in Young Warriors: Stories of Strength by Tamora Pierce and Josepha Sherman.

We are also happy to have seasoned authors bringing their stories to you; Glen Bresciani brings a new version Hades; Seth Augenstein’s story will titillate you with an Indigenous inspired story; LA Selby lends her expertise and asks the question, What does a God of War do when there is no more war?; and Jeff Provine introduces a Maori God to those who would never have heard of Him.

We welcome new writers as well: Ross Carter mingles mythology, legend, history and dream to reveal the origins of a God many of heard of but do not truly know, and Ralph Mack whose story is about how a God truly manifests within a Priest.

Last, but not least, I have dusted off a short story that is part of my book series, The Chosen Chronicles.

I hope that this anthology opens your eyes and your imagination to the many different Gods found around the world, and if you’re truly lucky, you’ll have learned something new.

Karen Dales

Toronto, Ontario, Canada

Samhain 2023.

For all the Hidden Children of the God.

DEVIL THE GREEK

by

Glenn Bresciani

TRUST MOTHER EARTH, Gaia, to have stretch marks of pure silver, said Melina, hurrying along the cave tunnel, glittering veins in the rock above her head reflecting the light from her flaming torch.

Melina stopped in front of a bronze door, studded with rubies, and sighed. The bedchamber of the maiden whom she served stood on the other side. How unfair. She had been a maid servant when she lived, and now she must do it all again while dead.

She raised a fist to announce herself with a knock, but instead pressed an index finger against her cheek. Why, look at that. The door was ajar, allowing Melina to sneak a quick peek into the chamber. The maiden on the other side of the door need never know that she was being observed.

Melina spied with her little eye, something beginning with S. As in seeds. A clay bowl full of seeds to be precise. The maiden sat cross-legged on her plush bed, scooped a handful of seeds from the bowl, and raised them to her full lips.

Melina held her breath. Was the maiden going to eat them?

No. Stranger than that. She whispered to them. Whether it was words of encouragement or words of warning, Melina would never know.

The maiden flung seeds at the rock wall above her night stand. The wall absorbed the seeds, that would begin their ascent to the world of the living. Once they had transcended solid rock and entered the realm of damp, worm-nourished soil, the seeds would crack and seedlings would sprout. Caressed by rain, wind, and sunshine, the seedlings would flourish and Narcissus flowers would bloom.

With a gasp, Melina backed away from the door. How dare she spy upon this maiden. The poor dear was the only living resident in the Underworld, and an unwilling one at that. Melina adjusted her cloth girdle, finding comfort in her fidgeting. At last, she knocked on the door.

Go away, shouted the maiden.

Melina entered the bedchamber anyway, stood in front of the bed with a scene of dryads dancing in a forest carved into a wooden ornamental headboard. The violet linen sheets were disheveled, the messy folds having followed the movements of the maiden as she lounged on the bed. Rosemary scented candles conjured memories of evenings spent in her herb garden when she had been alive.

The maiden swept her dark wavy hair away from her heart shaped face, tucking it behind her ear. The daughter of a goddess, which would explain why she was so stunning, an orchid among daffodils. No doubt, the men would have been buzzing around her in the living world, eager to dip themselves into her pollen.

My Lady, said Melina, giving a lackluster curtsey. Hades has requested your presence in his throne room.

At the mention of Hades, the young maiden flinched. Why, I would be delighted, she said with a sneer.

Melina nodded, and wondered when this exquisite beauty, with the odd name of Persephone, would attempt to escape from the god who held her prisoner in his palace.

The purpose of the blockish, polished obsidian throne was to diminish the confidence of all who looked upon it. The throne would have done just that had Alexis, the courtier, been looking at Hades who sat upon it. Instead, Alexis gaped at the right side of Hades where Persephone sat on a slender throne carved from a block of rose quartz.

Hades spun his two-pronged bident in his hand as he gazed at Persephone, his smile a crescent moon in the darkness of his shaggy black beard. She is a beauty.

The himation, that Alexis wore over his knee length chiton and draped over one shoulder, fanned out around him as he dropped to one knee. I apologize, my Lord. I didn’t mean to stare.

Hades dismissed his courtier’s apology with a half-hearted wave of his hand. I understand Alexis. I am as dazzled as you are.

Persephone sniffled. She stared, with swollen eyes, into the orange glow from hundreds of candle flames that lined the throne room and circled the base of each column. When she blinked, a tear rolled down her soft cheek.

Alexis gasped. A real tear! Down here among the dead. He had not seen a tear since—well, since he was alive.

Reaching out to the throne next to him, the Lord of the Underworld grasped Persephone’s delicate fingers in his own. You see, my dear? Everyone is enchanted by your beauty. You are as radiant as the morning light glinting off the icicles that hang from a frozen corpse.

Gagging, Persephone snatched her hand away from Hades’ touch.

Alexis sighed. Actually, my Lord, I was reminded of the flowers in the Elysian Fields whose petals of gold blaze when they catch the rays of the setting sun.

Hades sniffed; his face expressionless. Your metaphor makes no sense to me.

Persephone’s wavy long hair swished over her shoulder as she turned to face Hades. You will regret bringing me here against my will.

Forget your mother, shouted Hades, pounding his fist on the armrest of his throne. She would never have agreed to our wedding. That’s why she doesn’t know you’re here.

I wasn’t referring to my mother, Persephone said with pouting ruby lips, crossing her arms over an ample bosom.

What news concerning my kingdom, Alexis? Hades struck the end of his bident against the floor. The loud thud made his announcement feel more official.

Alexis coughed to clear his throat. These past few days, no new souls have increased the population of your kingdom, my lord.

Raising her feet and clasping her shins, Persephone pressed her face against her knees to hide her smirk.

Impossible, Hades’ grip on his bident tightened. Every day that goes by, a mortal will die.

Swallowing, Alexis considered his words carefully. I can assure you my lord, death is still an everyday occurrence up above. The dead are still arriving. They’re just refusing to cross the River Styx.

They know the rules. Where are their coins?

Coins aren’t the issue, my lord. They refuse to enter,

Hades rose from his throne and stood with his legs apart to make room for his angry posture. Twice, he struck the floor with his bident. Bring me my Helmet of Invisibility.

The sound of bare feet slapping against the stone floor could be heard before the servant could be seen running towards the blockish throne. The servant dropped to his knees, lowered his head, and raised his arms to offer the helmet to his master. A pair of goat horns curved upwards from the crown of the helmet.

The Lord of the Underworld tucked his helmet in the crook of his arm, and bowed to Persephone, the edge of his black cloak swept the stone floor. I shan’t be long, my beloved.

Many tiny flames were extinguished as Hades strode between the rows of columns. The death of each flame cut a dark path through the candle glow, the darkness following Hades to the throne room entrance.

No living could enter; no dead could leave. That was the rule. No mortal, dead or alive, would dare break this rule, for fear of being devoured by the three heads of Cerberus. Only immortals were an exception to this rule.

Cerberus sat under the portico that sheltered the only entrance to Hades’ domain. His multiple ears swiveled as he simultaneously looked left, straight up, and at the opposite bank of the River Styx.

A halo of polished gems, circling the symbol of a cypress tree, decorated the double doors that silently swung inwards.

Cerberus spun around, jaws snapping, saliva spraying. His triple bark shook the columns supporting the roof of the portico.

It’s only me, Spot, said Hades, striding through the doorway, his black cloak billowing.

At the sight of his master, Cerberus switched from ferocious guard dog to jolly playful pet, his heads jostling one another to be the first to lick the god.

Hades donned his horned helmet, adjusting the straps until they were tight under his chin.

Cerberus wagged his tail; his tongues flopped out of panting mouths. When his master wore his helmet was when the fun began, when Cerberus could show off his finest hallmark—his noses. With a sniff here, and a sniff there, Cerberus nostrils flared until he locked onto his master’s scent, following him down the stairs that ended in the River Styx.

Hades stepped onto the river, walking on water as if it were land. Further up river, the black water flowed between massive stalagmites, silhouetted by the reddish glow from a lava flow somewhere in the distance.

A fog, tumbling over the water, was the only movement. Everything else was as still and silent as a corpse on a table awaiting an autopsy. Even the skiff in the middle of the river was motionless.

Hades strode towards the skiff, eyes narrowed. Ever since the first mortal souls had arrived in the Underworld, that vessel had always ferried them across the river to their new home.

Standing over the skiff, Hades scowled at Charon, who lay on his back, legs dangling over the gunwale. A long wooden pole rested on his narrow torso. The cloak that hung over his left shoulder was as greasy as his uncombed grey beard and hair. 

Bastard! Miscreant! Hades’ fingers yanked the straps of his helmet through the brass clasp. Slamming Charon with the full blast of his fury required him to be visible, thus the helmet had to go.

Plop. Ripples circled the spot were something had disturbed the water. Hades spun around; his head still encased in his helmet. What was that? It couldn’t be a fish. Animals have no soul. He glanced over the water.

Plop. A tiny splash followed by more ripples. Something had dropped into the water. Gazing upon the river bank, Hades clenched his teeth. Dozens of the dead had congregated along the water’s edge. Some of them were shouting at one another. A woman shoved an elderly man into the water. A boy threw something tiny and sparkling into the river.

A coin flipped head over tails through the air, and struck the water.

What the— was all Hades had to say about the situation before his mind collided into a solid wall of disbelief.

Charon sat up, pulled his tattered cloak over his shoulder, strands of his long wispy beard and hair swayed as he looked in every direction. You there boss?

Hades didn’t answer. Hades was gone. He marched towards the river bank where the dead had gathered. Another coin struck the water. The god of the Underworld stepped over the circling ripples.

Don’t do it, shouted a pot-bellied man.

Another man nodded in agreement. Don’t pay the ferry man.

Don’t even fix a price, said an old lady, spitting a coin out of her mouth and throwing it away.

Hades stood so close to the dead that he could have reached out and poked them with his bident. The dead would never see him, there was nothing to see while he wore his helmet.

There’s nothing here, an exasperated woman shouted, her coin imprisoned inside her clenched fist. We have to keep moving. We should be crossing that river.

A skinny man pointed at Hades’ palace on the opposite side of the Styx. I’d rather stay here than burn for eternity over there.

Burn? Hades glanced over his shoulder, expecting to see his palace on fire. A few windows glowed orange from candle light from within, that was about it.

The eternal lake of fire. It’s all the priestess in my village ever talks about, said a woman with missing fingers.

A scruffy man beside her scoffed. The priestess from my village wouldn’t shut up about it.

A Spartan, no doubt killed in battle, puffed out his chest. I ain’t burning forever. No way. Not even the gods could make me cross that river.

Hades could have easily grabbed the Spartan and hurled him across the river. Instead, his brow wrinkled while he wondered where one would find an eternal supply of fuel for an eternity of fire. Not even the Titans could have achieved that, and they were the creators of the universe.

Whagh, wailed a new born baby, cradled in their mother’s arm. I don’t want to burn for eternity. Whagh. I don’t want to burn at all. What’s the point of living if our death is punishment? I never asked to be born.

There, there. Hush dear, said the mother, kissing her baby’s forehead. The gods are cruel.

What psycho-sicko would burn souls forever as if they were chopped wood in a stove? Hades would never do that. He prided himself in giving humanity hope, life after death, here in his domain. It was more than Zeus could ever achieve.

What was going on up there under the Mycenean sun? Who was feeding humanity such a scandalous lie? Hades must know. His reputation, as an afterlife service provider, depended on it.

Hades snapped his fingers. He didn’t have long to wait, thirty-nine seconds to be precise. The splashing of hooves striking water announced the arrival of his two black mares pulling his chariot. The chariot rolled across the river as if it were ice.

All the dead gasped in unison at the approaching chariot. Had Hades come to personally apologize for the delays? Many waved their arms and shouted, then froze when they realized that the chariot was empty.

Hades lips were tightly pressed, air blasting out of his nostrils while he glowered at his palace. Right about now, Persephone would be having her bath, dried herbs and petals floating in the steaming water. Her shoulders and arms, resting on the rim of the bath, as smooth and fair as bleached bones baking in the hot sun.

He growled, dreading this bullshit mission he’d been forced to undertake. His beloved Persephone would suffer heartache and loneliness while he was gone, and much worse should Zeus discover her whereabouts and claim her for his own. Should that happen, there was nothing Hades could do about it as he will be on the wrong side of a barrier that separated the living from the dead.

Jumping into his chariot, Hades clawed the air with one hand as he raged. Bastard! Dead flesh burrowing maggot! Whoever started this rumor of my realm being a lake of fire, I will find you, and I will hurl you into Hephaestus’ furnace to watch you burn.

Hearing Hades’ voice, the dead shouted in unison. The meek begged for mercy, while the assholes demanded to speak to Hades’ manager. When no god could be seen, the shouting diminished into grunts of bewilderment.

Sensing their master’s foul mood, the mares launched into a gallop, the rumbling wheels of the chariot spraying a wall of mist into the air behind Hades.

The mares charged into the space above the river at an angle similar to the slope of a hill. They galloped towards the cavern ceiling that dripped with stalactites, sharper than the fangs of the Lernean Hydra.

Teeth clamped on the bronze bits, the mares converted their will power to horse power. A collision with the roof of the cavern would commence in five blinks of an eye. They needn’t have worried. They were in good hands. After all, it was a god who steered the chariot.

Hades waved his bident in a wide arc. Stalactites shuddered and snapped, rock rumbled and broke apart. Bright sunlight burst through a yawning cavity and pierced the dark depths of the River Styx. The two mares and the chariot leapt through the rift that shrunk, rock grinding against rock, once they had passed. The intruding light vanquished; darkness prevailed.

Huh, that’s odd, said the woodcutter, removing his straw hat and wiping sweat off his brow. He watched two black mares pull a driverless chariot along the dusty road. Beside the woodcutter, his mule raised its head to sniff at the chariot. There was no fooling the mule. It may be unable to see the driver, but it sure could smell them. Whoever they were, they smelled like licorice.

The mule snorted to rid the offensive sweet stench from its nostrils.

With his bident in one hand and reins in the other, Hades surveyed his surroundings. Behind him, the rattling chariot wheels had churned up dust clouds.

To the left of Hades, dead grass clung to the hills, a paler shade of scorched yellow. Up and up the hills climbed, ending where the mountains began. To the right of Hades, the cool turquoise of the Mediterranean Sea mocked the dry, thirsty land and islands that hadn’t seen a drop of rain since—well, since Persephone had arrived in the Underworld.

Above it all, the sun burnt a white hole in the cloudless sky, rays so intense that they bleached the blue out of the Big Blue.

Hades whistled, impressed by the severity of the drought that plagued the land of the living. No doubt, the goddess Demeter had postponed her divine duties so she could focus on her search for her missing daughter.

In the distance, an unnatural row of olive trees contradicted the natural landscape. Hades slowed his chariot, examined the trees to confirm what he suspected. Sure enough, beyond the olive trees were the thatched rooftops of a dozen huts.

Hades nodded. Good. Where there was a village, there were mortals. Tugging on the reins, he signaled the mares to stop. They and the chariot did just that, with dust clouds sailing by.

Stepping out of the chariot, Hades gave each mare a rub on the nose. I shan’t be long.

Dead grass crackled under his feet as he marched towards the village. Only a few leaves clung to the skeletal branches of the surrounding shrubs. He stepped over a dead rabbit, its thin dehydrated skin stretched tight over its ribs. Flies buzzed in and out of the gaps in its skull.

Ten yards out from the border of the village, three maidens strolled through a patch of white Narcissus flowers. Shawls, draped over their heads and shoulders, shielded them from the rays of the sweltering sun. They each plucked a Narcissus from the dry soil, adding it to the bundles of flowers cradled in their arms. Each Narcissus was plump with moisture and vigor. At the center of their star shaped petals was a yellow crown of pollen.

We’ve got enough flowers here for two funerals, said one of the maidens. Why are we still picking more?

Nonsense, said another maiden. Zorba deserves to have all the flowers we can carry placed on his grave.

With his bearded chin raised high, Hades spread his legs, thrust his pelvis in the direction of the Narcissus. What a fine specimen it was. Hades’ finest creation yet. The Narcissus was his gift to the living so they could adorn their dead the same way a chef used parsley