THREE NAMES OF THE HIDDEN GOD
by Vera Nazarian
T he world holds as many gods as there are directions radiating outward from the heart of the Compass Rose.
There are gods who must blaze across the spheres in pure glorious light. There are gods who prefer to remain in the shadows, folded cleverly upon themselves like feathers in a dove’s gray wing, doling out tiny motes of grace to the famished worshippers. There are gods who choose to be submerged in the lowest places of darkness, with forms huge and heavy and malleable, containing so many possibilities that they may not remain in any other shape than primeval clay.
And then, it is said, there is the one god who hides and can be found in none of the divine places.
For the most part, the god—he, she, or it—stays hidden so well that nothing is known about it, her, or him. Indeed, it is a fair question whether the Hidden God exists at all.
* * *
W hen Ruogo the youngest birdcatcher found the dead bird, it was too late for it. It was lying cold and tiny on the ground, partially hidden by the fallen leaves of the great backyard tree. A miracle that the household cats had not gotten to it—or maybe they had, and this was just an abandoned victim of a feline game.
There was something particularly sad abou t the remains. The boy picked up the little bird and examined it, seeing that it had been but a hatchling, its tawny feathers consisting of fluff and bits of its rosy-gray tiny body stained with newborn moisture. Then he put it in the front of his apron and carried it inside the house, only to be scolded by the elders.
“ Why do you waste your time with hopeless things? Make yourself useful instead by returning with a net filled with the living, not the dead,” said an old master birdcatcher as he bound together bark and twigs in the workroom. He was the one who made the most intricate cages in the shape of great buildings and houses and temples, for the nobles’ fancy.
The dark-haired boy listened to the reprimand, the olive skin of his face showing no discolor ation brought about by shame. His gray eyes were blank, concealing any possible cleverness, and he merely lowered his gaze when the elder was done speaking. And that gaze continued to observe the dead bird.
When excused, Ruogo took the bird ’s corpse, still in the folds of his apron, to the rear of the house and out into the back yard, where the old trash pit made itself known by its thick stench from many paces away. Just at the edges of the hole he paused, considering—while others constantly walked past him and threw in various rubbish, since this was a busy household.
“ Either do your business or move aside, boy,” they told him, and yet he remained, frozen.
It would take but a moment to toss in the little corpse, and forget it, forever. Do this and go on wi th the course of his life.
But the gods had other plans for Ruogo.
And the boy wrinkled his brow in a profound gesture of resignation, and eventually turned away from the edge of the pit. He returned to the house, the dead bird still with him.
In his tiny closet of a room that he shared with four other children apprentices, there had been an old wooden box. His grandmother, who’d died two summers ago, left Ruogo very little in the way of possessions, and this was his one most prized object. It was hardly larger than a tobacco box, and possibly once held someone’s small jewelry pouch. Delicate patterns of varicolored wood inlay covered its top that swung up on twin hinges. Inside, lined with soft fabric, Ruogo stored his treasures. One was a pendant of carved jade, shaped like a bird—the symbol of his apprenticeship, given to him when he was brought to the Birdcatcher House. Another was a small knife for fingernail grooming that he found on the street, and a couple of other pretty trinket stones also discovered on the ground.
Ruogo did not think twice but opened the box and emptied its contents on the worn
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