“The old gods never left,” said the old man, nose in the air.

“Where did they go?” his granddaughter sought to humor him; It had been a grand family trip, a whole affair with aunts and uncles and cousins from all over the country, wedged in vans and pickup trucks through an itinerary that led them in and out hotels and beaches and mountains and parks, tracing their roots, old favorite spots. She knew it was not easy for the old man; today it was a tour through a village renowned for their local crafts, and the short walk from the car to the entrance had already exhausted him.

“They didn’t go anywhere,” he sniffed. He could not see, but by the smell he knew; The memory of it drove him beyond the sharp waves of wood varnish and rust, and he was a boy again, surrounded by a forest that was said to be as old as the sky. But that was a very long time ago, and very far away.

“We should buy something, don’t you think?” She picked up a statuette and the store clerk that had been eyeing her looked elsewhere. They had only entered the store for the wooden chairs and benches that stood guard by the entrance, an easy resting spot for her grandfather, and she thought to compensate for this intrusion by buying something, anything. It was an unspoken obligation.

“We didn’t cut them down,” and his hands trembled. “Some trees were so, were so old that even our…our great-great-grandfathers would recall them as they are: huge trees with the dark wood, covered with vines. They looked like curtains, even walls. We were only allowed to take fallen branches, or the younger ones we planted ourselves…but you would have to wait for many years.”

“Are those the trees with the Nunu?” her childhood ran rampant with stories of the Nunu in their little mounds by the foot of old trees, giggling and tricking travelers into taking different paths, putting curses on people who trampled them. She turned it over in her hands. It seemed carved to the likeness of a shadow, dark and slim and smooth. Her fingers found the price tag and she blinked. “It’s expensive!”

“They’re made from the trees cut down to make way for the hotels and restaurants.” The store clerk said meekly from her counter, “hundred-year old trees.” A park had been made, for the few old trees that remained. There were only a handful of them left, the vines trimmed and strung with rubbish, names and hearts etched into the roots.

“I’m paying for a relic, then.” She showed it to her grandfather, put it in his hands to feel. “We’re buying a relic, look.”

“Ah.” but the old man had tired of talking; instead searching, searching among the overlapping smells for the past, for more hints of home. Only when his granddaughter had taken him by the arm and guided him slowly back to the car did he say, “Ah, even gods would always return to something. They would make homes in those trees. Gods lived in trees. They always have.”

“What happens if the trees are taken down?”

“A terrible thing. A terrible thing, to be trapped. They would be trapped in the wood, bound to it, wherever it went. Farther and farther away, as it is. A terrible thing to be so far away from home.”

“A terrible thing to be so far away from home,” she echoed quietly as she went for a stroll on their last morning in the village. “A terrible thing too, to be lost but so close to home.” It was not even sunrise. People had hardly stirred in their beds with thoughts of waking.

She pulled apart the vines, found a space between knotted bark and put the statuette within. She knew no prayers to the old gods, no ritual to awaken them, not even the language sung them, only the longing for home.

They watch him again. They don’t take their eyes off him. Annoying little monsters.

He wishes he could just step on them. Crush them. Like the little bugs they are. Like bugs who deserve to die.

Every night they perform their evil rituals. Unholy little beasts. The chants and whispers keep him awake. Distracted. But necessarily vigilant. Oh well, he has that to thank them for.

But oh the horror! The wickedness of their very presence. The rites that purge this sanctuary of all its goodness. This place is supposed to preserve all that was held sacred of the past, the present, and in the future, the future. Not stain it with these unholy beings!

He only wishes he had the power to oppose these little gods. These little devils masquerading as gods. To cast them into the fire they worship. Where they rightfully belong.

But every time he decides to face them, those stone cold grey eyes lock right on to him. They stop their corrupt ceremonies as they silently turn to glare at him accusingly. With their evil distorted dark faces. Monsters. Blank zombie-like expressions. No questions asked. Their eyes say it all.

You have a problem?

He disrupts their rituals. They know he is the blasphemer. The traitor. The one who will betray them. He knows that they know this. But they only silently watch with their stone cold grey eyes.

It’s a game of who makes the first move. Graciously they deliberately peeve him into considering the first move. No, he will not give in. If they can act all righteous, so can he.

After all, he is only a powerless sentry. A subordinate. He can only follow orders. His very job is to keep watch and maintain order. He cannot participate, he cannot rule, and he most definitely cannot oppose. Only watch. And obey. Helplessly.

His hands clutch at the pendant hanging at his neck. His last hope of remaining sane in the presence of these sinful wicked beings. He wears it like a talisman. He opens it and glances at the pictures of his two children – a boy and a girl – closes it and decides once more that he needs to send them to college one day.

“If you want to keep this job, don’t do anything stupid,” he speaks out loudly. To himself, of course. Staring at the statuettes with his watchful eyes. They just stare back.

“Yeah, just another night at the museum, move along now,” he tries to convince himself.

OFF LIMITS. Authorized Personnel Only.’ It read.

Leila drew a deep breath and pushed the curtains aside. ‘You’ve come this far, so might as well…’ she thought. She smoothed her skirt, not wanting to think ahead. Then, she walked on, swiftly turning her back as she heard footsteps in the hall. Quietly turning to make sure the coast was clear, she then quickly found the door and pushed it open. There they were.

She grabbed a plastic cup and joined them. The TV was on; on one side some women were giving each other manicures. But it was this table she wanted to sit at. It was their one night when they forgot about the measly pay or the grouchy bosses. Or in her case, the perpetually drunk boyfriend of 8 years who liked to hit her a little too often.  The head cook, Roma, knew she might fall into more than just a little trouble with this set-up in the pantry. But Roma knew what it meant to the women.

‘Was this punch spiked? Oh, what the hell!’ Leila chuckled, for all we know, the bosses could be at wits end and looking for them. Soon someone would notice the women secretaries, clerks, all disappearing for breaks at the same time for an hour. But till then, this was their haven. And this table, her guilty pleasure – the Wednesday night poker table. Who said it was a men’s game, again?

Posts on this prompt:

OFF LIMITS by Three

Behind the Post by BandE

Crossing Over by Aniket