Somewhere in the catacombs, a bird’s hollow bones echo with my votive prayer for your destruction. That holy bird was stuffed with two snails, wound in linen, and bound in ceramic into a position of brooding. Since then, I have gone beyond forgiveness and tipped fully into acceptance of your faults in the meantime. Fallen in love, even.
I asked an acolyte how hard it is to locate a votive once it’s been consecrated. He suggested I buy another to correct the first, as if this were a simple clerical error and not your impending doom. As if I could afford the cost. Ah, Thoth. Wisdom and judgement. If only I’d had more of the first and less of the latter.
You bemoan your run of bad luck. I make do with what we have left. You blame yourself, and I wallow in the guilt of my unseen breath sculpting your misfortune. A prayer made must rely on the gods’ discretion, for are we humans not fallible and arrogant? I fear I have brought attention to your faults. I am aware this sounds like I am blaming you, and not my own indiscretion, but are you engaging in immoral habits?
***
I have done a thing less terrible than the first, but no less destructive. I have paid for a new votive with the only thing I own. The only thing I can give. The only thing you would never forgive. But, the acolyte promised the snails would be choice and the linens blessed. The ibis itself procured from the flooding riverbanks under the free sky and hot sun, not one taken from the shaded courtyard flocks. A free bird netted for Thoth’s attention. This time I am careful and plan the prayer as if I am being weighed by the word.
Your business improves, your skin clears, and you no longer walk as if carrying bricks. That honey-voiced artisan from the weaving block, you know the one; she suggests you linger. She encourages you to laughter. Don’t think I didn’t see.
I ask the acolyte if passion counts more than truth. He suggests we could find out, but I do not accept his offer again. Instead, I take matters into my own hands. I ply you with choice treats and bind you tightly in our finest sheets. Then, I stuff you in a perfect attitude of attention into the ceramic pot myself.
No divine intervention needed.