Cindy Mu

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Hymn for the Mortal God

There were very few people for acres of land around Hank’s farm—not because they had all died or been eaten, but because there was something intrusive about the whistling of the wind between the grass. 

It’s God breathing, Edith had once said, her rounded, soft arms wrapped around his shoulders and breathing against his neck, the swell of her swollen stomach pressing into his back as they watched the grass ripple. He’s watching us work His land. Keeping us in check. Reminding us of the goodness of His world, Hank. 

Hank didn’t believe in God, nor other such indulgences—at least not in his mind. No, he believed in people: in Edith and in himself. Here, out in the open, Hank could make whatever he wanted as a God might, shaping mountains and men out of river clay. Out near the river, Hank knew he could make a family for himself. 

That is what kept him calm when he gently fastened Edith’s seatbelt over her heaving stomach as they began their long journey to the hospital. The bottom of her apron was wet with smashed egg yolks and blood; she had been gathering eggs out in the chicken coop when the first contraction began. He brushed the soiled apron aside, stroking Edith’s thigh like a talisman, his fingers gliding upon its soft fat as she screamed. 

# 

How did he bear it? The banality of Edith as an “unlucky woman,” how disappointingly ordinary it was for a nurse to pull a sheet over Edith’s cooling head. His stomach was sick as if his very intestines were black and rotting, listening to the doctors discuss their lunch plans as they rinsed Edith’s blood from their hands. Entering the house without Edith or the son he was promised, silent like the moment before lightning strikes, Hank seemed to grow younger as if animated by electricity. Tucking away Edith’s worn shoes, folding up her blouses in newspaper, washing their sheets of her before enlisting in the military because by God, what a mess love can make in one’s life. 

Now, Hank was not cruel for marrying Judith just three months after the war because he couldn’t get rid of the Edith-and-son-shaped hole in his heart, like a bullet wound that festered. Judith was offered up to him, a sacrifice to bring peace in her shelled shithole of a village. Hank was a self-appointed God—like the rest of them in the history of man—and Gods have never cared for anything but themselves. 

# 

One winter, Susanna almost starved. It was upsetting for Judith, to say the least, to see the calf mewl for milk as its mother kicked it away. The following frosted nights, Judith took to the barn with the calf, tilling the straw and brushing its tawny coat until it began to totter around her, taking to her like a duckling to its mother. It might have even imprinted on her. 

Lil’ Susanna, Judith would coo at the calf, oh you’re so precious—don’t be shy, oh Hank, I think she likes me! 

Truthfully, it was probably Judith’s never-ending coddling that stunted the calf’s growth, insisting on feeding it molasses mixed with warm cream as it lounged about the living room like a cat. Hank had always insisted that a calf’s bones needed to be hardened by frost to survive the winter and would tie the creature outside before going to bed, but somehow it would always be curled up in the sheets by morning.

Now a matured heifer, Susanna seemed to stare balefully at Hank as he peered into the barn through a crack in the door. Judith’s ebony hair glowed in the dappled light as she sat facing Susanna, silver pail in hand. Frankly, Hank had no honor left in him, for he had resorted to spying on his own wife in his own home. Shuffling on his hands and knees, he crawled behind the door frame, listening in. 

“He’s not a bad husband,” Judith murmured under her breath, the tones of her voice soft and accented. The barn was silent for a minute, except for the plinking of milk against the bucket. “But everything just seems to…” She shifted in her seat. “Move past him. There’s been talk of building a town, but Hank wouldn’t hear it. The stubborn bastard sent those contractors running when he chased them with his gun.” 

Hank snorted. In his mind, he was doing everyone a favor. He didn’t like the image of people bleeding the fields dry, violating his home with shovels and cement. Perhaps it was selfish of him, but Hank had always believed that in another life he should have been a king. 

That is what kept him sane during the war, stomaching the stench of urine, gunpowder, and mud as he injected morphine or bullets into screaming men. He still dreamed of them, killing and healing until he couldn’t remember where he was. 

But that didn’t matter to Hank; in his mind, kings killed for what they believed in, and Hank most certainly believed in himself. 

“You know, us girls have to stick together,” Judith suddenly said. “It’s just you and me, Susanna: the only ones fighting this hell of a life on this farm.” 

Susanna’s head bobbed up and down as she reached for another bushel of hay. Hank had always thought that fighting dirty was beneath him, but Susanna was just so useless. She rarely produced enough milk to sell, but her appetite was always endless. He glowered at the barn door and considered butchering her, as he did every time he saw her. Sometimes, he would go as far as to sharpen his knife behind the barn, out of Judith’s line of sight. This rarely made him feel better, unfortunately, because then he imagined Judith and Susanna together, curled up and asleep in the living room. 

Edith would never have done such a thing. 

When they had first started their lives on the farm, she had been devoted to him. Edith was more experienced at being a wife, manning the farm the entire time while Hank built their home. Truthfully, all he wanted was his woman and his farm out by the river, playing God where no one could expect anything less of him. That is why he returned to the overgrown farm after the war, carrying his new, limp bride over his shoulder like a shot doe. 

Gods, after all, have all the second chances in the world. 

Hank hissed through his teeth as he pulled himself up from the hard ground. Damned joints. The doorframe creaked loudly as he leaned against it. 

“Hank? Is that you there?” Hank nearly fell backwards; he hadn’t noticed Judith’s footsteps as she plodded towards the door. Her brow furrowed when Hank stayed silent, dry mouthed. 

“Are you spying on me?” Judith set the pail of milk on the ground, the liquid sloshing over the edge. She relaxed her shoulders back and sighed, as if she’d been alarmed when the door frame creaked, but the sight of her husband’s flushed face didn’t frighten her at all. Hank straightened very suddenly.

“’Course not.”

“Miracles of miracles, he lies.” 

Hank floundered. “Judith, you know I’m worried about you. It’s your first kid, and you’re out here milking cows. And besides, she’s not even worth it. We should’ve butchered her last winter when we had the chance.”

“I can handle myself.” Judith flexed her arm. “I used to fix trucks with my father back home.” 

Hank grunted. “Yeah, that shithole you called a home. God knows why you keep bringing it up.” 

She looked at him pointedly. “I fixed yours when I moved in, remember? I can handle a small lady like Susanna.” 

Hank winced. How could he ever forget that sunny afternoon when his wartime buddies decided to visit the farm? Every so often, they would take a train down from the neighboring town, wander their way through the grasslands, and ogle at Judith as if she was nothing short of a temptress. They would always insist on a full tour of the house, the farm, just to catch a rare glimpse of her: deliciously supple and exotic. Coy smile, black eyes that reflected the sun forever. Hank’s comrades had unanimously agreed that he had the best pick of the village. Hank had grimaced, then grinned painfully as they stumbled upon her pale legs under Hank’s truck. All she needed was a little tightening, she had said as they stared, backing out from under the belly of the truck on her back. An easy fix, Hank. Really, I’m surprised you didn’t know earlier. The strap of her thin undershirt had fallen as she stood up. His friends had glanced at each other, nodding. 

In their eyes, Hank saw pity, scorn, and something like lust. They had discovered Hank’s secret: that he was too old and fragile, that his sputtering truck simply needed something he could not give. The very next day, Hank smashed the windshield of the truck before driving into town to sell milk and eggs. 

Something in Hank smoldered like a dried corn husk. “I just wanted you to be careful, alright? I’m a husband, not a fucking monster. God forbid me from wanting a healthy son.”

“How lovely of you,” Judith sneered. “And I suppose you’ll take the privilege of naming him as well? After yourself?” 

“I gave you a beautiful name,” Hank murmured.

“Only because you never bothered to learn my real one.” Her dark eyes were bright as she stared at Hank. 

In the background, Susanna wheezed. It was an awful, grating sound. To Hank, it sounded insulting. Unnerving. 

And what else?

Oh yes. She was smiling.

# 

Out in the chicken coop, there was a homely sort of splashed sunlight that was jarring against the savagery of farm life. Hank yawned as he sprinkled feed. Almost immediately, a rush of heaving feathers and pecking beaks blurred before his boots, tearing and ripping ravenously at the cracked pellets and each other. Truthfully, Hank didn’t enjoy raising hens or cows for that matter—something about their stubborn nature and strong instincts—but there was an intoxicating allure to the way they worshiped him, fighting to lick the scraps of feed from his boots. 

A rooster spluttered as it stumbled from the thick of the crowd. You see, Hank had already begun to seed the next generation, tightening his grip on his unborn subjects. He had traded three dozen eggs for a fine-bred rooster with a crown of fiery red to create new life in his kingdom. Come the following morning, the rooster had crowed jubilantly as he planted himself between the hens. Unbeknownst to him, this coop was a private affair not to be intruded upon. And he was most certainly trespassing.

“Look.” Judith’s face was soft as she followed Hank’s gaze. The rooster had gone a few paces before collapsing, flecks of foam caking its beak. One side of its flank was tender, as if someone had slowly plucked its magnificent plumage away. “It’s dying.” 

Hank suddenly felt sick. “I never knew… how…” he gritted out, bile rising in his throat. The sight of its inflamed flesh and sporadic gasps was akin to that of the shell-shocked soldiers Hank tried so hard to forget. 

“Bring it to me.”

As if in a daze, he obeyed his wife, cradling the rooster gently like a newborn child. “You poor thing,” Judith murmured. Tenderly, she tucked the rooster under her arm. An image of Susanna and a rooster basking in his living room forced itself into Hank’s mind. 

“Judith…” Hank started. 

A firm snap resounded across the coop as Judith suddenly pulled at the rooster’s head. It convulsed for a moment before becoming still, its downy feathers still sprinkled in the air. Hank gagged as Judith pressed her ear against its chest. She raised her eyebrows as she met his eyes. 

“I forgot.” Judith squinted at Hank, her gaze raking him up and down. “You were a medic back in the war. Although I’m sure more… terrible things have happened than a rooster being put down?” 

“It moved!” Hank finally gasped, his eyes blown wide and shining.

Judith wiped her hands on her jeans. “Of course it did. Pull yourself together. The worst part is that they squirm a bit after you snap their neck.” She shrugged. “Something about a bird’s muscles makes it twitch after it becomes unconscious, I think.” 

“Son of a bitch, why didn’t you warn me?”

“I thought you knew,” she snorted. “If I knew my father wedded me to a farmer who couldn’t even cull his own chickens, I would’ve laughed in his face.” 

Hank did his best to ignore the gibe. Culling animals was Edith’s job all those years ago, a woman’s version of putting fools out of their misery, like when he was out in the trenches killing other men. He turned away from Judith and exhaled. Sometimes, part of being a God meant being silent, even in the face of a non-believer. He had no obligation to answer to Judith, the town contractors, or his old comrades. Hank had made a home with Judith and his future son, nestled between the sky and grass. Why couldn’t that be enough?

“Do you think about it?” Judith blurted. “The war. Those men.” 

“The men I killed?” Hank echoed. “Hardly. I didn’t go because I liked to hurt people.” 

“Why did you go, then?” 

Hank fell silent. The wind was whistling steadily again, through scattered feathers and grass. “I was different back before the war,” he finally said. “I think I was lost, and somehow, I knew that living through hell would help me find my way back. But that’s the fuck of it all, isn’t it? I thought the war would make me a better man.” He looked at Judith. “And now, I’ve found you.” 

# 

Hank hurried through the fields with a tingling between his shoulder blades. The air was thick and listless, like a storm simmering over, the tension in the grass bracing for crushing rain. The fields were quiet now; there were no more starlings chirping. Instead, they were silent as they swirled in swarms through the air, a dark cloud of liquid motion that haunted the sky. A storm was about to break.

“Susanna! Where’d you run off to?” Hank broke into a cough. The wind cut deeply, forcing its way into his lungs until he couldn’t scream any longer without choking. He didn’t know how long he had walked, shotgun in hand. There was a pounding of hooves as a herd of deer shot past Hank, spooked by some predator. Above him, the starlings and clouds rolled lower, swayed by the intrusive wind and the first thunderous sheet of rain. 

And then he saw her: a dark spot still against the rippling grass. And oh, was she terrifying, smiling with all her teeth. Hank could see every last one gleaming in the flash of lightning. They were wet with something dark, rainwater and something richer. 

She was feeding. 

Slaughtering men out of necessity was never an issue for Hank—but Susanna, she was hungry. The thought of Susanna standing over his unborn son, his own flesh and blood, the wet sound of ripping and chewing, echoed in Hank’s mind. 

And so, he screamed, the sound drowned out by a peal of tortured thunder. Susanna didn’t even flinch, her round brown eyes half-lidded as Hank raised his gun and aimed. 

# 

“Where have you been?” Judith gasped as Hank stumbled into the house. She shrunk back as he shook his hair, the melting candle in her hand wavering. 

“Hunting.” Hank tossed his jacket onto the ground. It splattered something dark onto the walls. “Shot a deer through the eyes. You can fry up meat tomorrow.” He spat at the floor through his teeth, as if he could strain lies from spittle. “Could you be a dear and warm my supper? I’m going to get clean.” 

“Deer?”

Hank paused. “No, dear.”

“Now, wait.” Judith reached down to pick up the jacket. “You’re telling me you went all that way to hunt deer? What’s there to hunt in a storm like this, anyways?” She squealed and brought her hand up to the candlelight. 

“Blood? Hank, what did you do? There’s so, so much.”

“Don’t worry about it. We’re safe now, you know.” Safety was an illusion that Hank knew too well. His stomach twisted violently, and he pursed his lips to hold everything in. You can butcher a God, eat her whole, but even then, she won’t die. 

“There’s blood on my walls,” she snarled, her dark eyes flashing. “Don’t you lie to me, you bastard. What did you do?”

Hank dug his nails into his scalp. There must’ve been something special about the rain, something supernatural. You see, once Hank had pulled the trigger like he did all those years ago in the bloody fields of Judith’s village, he saw Susanna fall hard. When he got closer, any trace of hunger had been washed from her eyes. Her blood was sickly warm against Hank as he butchered the beef into strips to take back to Judith. He half-expected her stripped carcass to get up, to unhinge her jaw and swallow him whole. But the only sound now was the mud, sucking and pulling at Hank’s boots as he knelt before her. A rivulet of it seeped from his hair to the corner of his mouth, and Hank swallowed deeply. Gods can’t die, but perhaps they could be digested, their bodies leeching divinity and power into intestines. 

# 

Hank often smelled blood in his dreams. It was always smooth like oil, staining his teeth, hands, and soul. But to smell its stench in the sanctuary of his bedroom—now that was violence.

He flailed from the bed, his arm knocking into the shotgun above their bed. It clattered like stripped bones as it fell onto the floor. 

“Hank? What’s happening? There’s blood on the sheets. Oh no, our baby.” Judith’s voice broke off as another contraction seized her, and she held her breath. 

There was peace in the home for once, the ticking of the clock like gunshots in Hank’s heart. Then Judith howled.

It’s all wrong. 

It hit him all at once: Judith and missiles screaming together layered into a cruel harmony, the rumble of death and bombs in villages, wind whipping through the grass. Judith screamed again, the blood vessels in her eyes bursting. Hank knew that the time was up. He reached for the hunting knife concealed under his pillow and gripped it tightly behind his back. With his other hand, he stroked Judith’s clammy cheek. 

“Hank,” she croaked. “Save me, my dear.” Her cheek shone wetly as she groaned again. On the upside, the stars were coming out to watch. Judith didn’t deserve any of this, but Hank was just a man in the end, after all. 

Hank didn’t know how long they stayed like that, his forehead pressed to Judith’s, sharing breaths as enemies, colonizer and the colonized. 

The starlight pierced through the air brighter than any light in the world as Hank kneeled before Judith, blood on the sheets and the soul. 

She was so beautiful; she was vibrant in their own little world of grass, heaven, and light. A shadow crossed her face when Hank didn’t reply. 

The stars and the wind, empty of souls for thousands of miles around, chanted softly. There is no honor in battle! Only sacrifice!

Hank was so sure of his divinity, so awful in that moment that everything but his yearning for a son left. 

“I’m so sorry, Judith.”

Holding his breath, Hank brandished his blade and raised his hand to strike. Briefly, he wondered how deep he should slice the womb to rescue his son. An image of a disemboweled soldier tore at his gut, and he leaned over to vomit. 

The whites of Judith’s eyes cut through Hank in the cold light, and for a second the wind held its breath. Her hand left dark, dripping marks against the covers as she reached for the shotgun on the floor. Wiping his soiled mouth, Hank swallowed hard. 

There was an audience to celebrate the return of a God. Rows of eyes gleamed hungrily, coldly, in the window. They were here, the Gods Hank was forced to regurgitate: Susanna, the cows, the hens. 

To be a true God was to wield this power, the kind that can’t be stolen by trespassers who take, take, take. 

Judith’s lips, soft and cracked like cowhide, stretched into a snarl as she cocked the gun. Hank couldn’t move. A God had called for him and he must answer. Judith placed a wet hand on his chest. 

“Come get your love, dear. Come get the love you deserve.”

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Banner Art:
Cow, Shunsuke Matsumoto, ca. 1943-1946, Museum of Modern Art, Kamakura and Hayama, Wikimedia Commons