This information about Apollo's being the God of the Plague comes from a book called "Greek Religion" by Walter Burkert. It spawned this idea, and I've been loving it ever since. Beware the minor gods in this one, kids!
I tried to make the main character very young-sounding, so forgive the lack of variance in word-usage and simple and redundant sentence-structure. If such a perspective can be improved, please tell me how in your reviews. Thank you!
"When Apollo enters Olympus with his dread bow all the gods spring to their feet;
Only Leto his mother remains seated;
She takes the bow and quiver from her son and shows him to his seat;
She rejoices that she has given birth to a mighty, bow-carrying son."
~Hymn to Apollo, as translated in the book Greek Religion, by Walter Burkert
My mom hates me, I think. She really doesn't act like the moms in the Bible. But she says we must strive to be like them, despite our flaws. Especially me, the bastard child of an evil pagan god. The Bible says he shouldn't exist, but mom says he was created by the devil himself, a sin against God in all ways. The antichrist. Therefore, as the granddaughter of Satan, I must be purged of my overwhelming evil tendencies by praying seven times a day, reading a book from the Bible every week, and by changing my appearance to better fit God's holy image. And, to ensure that I will not follow in my evil father's footsteps, I am never allowed to go to the Road without my holy, God-fearing mom.
"…thank you, Lord, for letting me wake on this glorious day, and please prevent the evil thoughts of my father and grandfather from entering my mind. Bless my mom and me with Your grace, Love Kyle. In Jesus' name, Amen." That's my name. Kyle. Kyle Marie Baker. I'm a girl, if you're confused. My mom always told me that if anyone laughed at the boy's name, it was because I deserved to be mocked. An undeserved name for an undeserved existence. I didn't like it when she told me that. I always kind of liked my name.
Then again, I liked my eyes, too, but mom didn't like them or my hair. She said it was unnatural. His looks. Green eyes and blond hair, though I don't quite know what blond is. I don't remember what my hair looks like. Mom has shaved my head since I was small to keep my father's vanity from entering my being. She tries not to look me in the eye too often, either. She says she sees the evil of my father lurking there in the shadows, waiting for the opportunity to break loose.
I don't regret being partially, if not mostly, evil, though, because if I weren't we would starve. You see, I love hunting. That is how my father's evil has permeated my being, and I pray to God for the ability to control it, but I will never stop loving it. Even when I was small, when my mom read a non-Bible story that involved a trap or a chase, I always wondered how it worked, how far and fast one would have to run to catch someone, and I would fall asleep dreaming of the game I could catch. I thought about making and setting traps to catch some things, and perhaps learn a bit about them and their mechanics, but that would be cruel, and therefore evil and deserving of my mom's righteous blows of punishment. But traps didn't occupy me for too long.
Ever since I saw a picture of a bow and quiver, I've been obsessed. The form, the tension of the string, the sound and rush of release; all are what make the weapon beautiful. Even the name is beautiful. Bow and arrows. Just hearing it made my heart beat hard, and I remember I begged my mom for even just a picture of such a beautiful thing. When she finally gave it to me, on my sixth birthday, that was it. I knew where the wickedness of my soul came from, and it could not be purged even by my most God-fearing and serving mom. I was born for it. I secretly read about it long into the night, using flashlights under the blankets and hiding places for any books mentioning the mystical, fantastic weapon. Once, I even went so far as to attempt my own construction of one and try to hunt with it. I had to try in the middle of the night, and it didn't work so well, so I was severely punished for the telling scrapes on my legs from tripping, but it didn't matter. The bow was my calling, my holy way of glorifying God. I had to go back to it. I think mom knew, too, because she left the house for several days and came back with books on nothing but archery and home-made arrows and bows. I think she went to the Road to get them. I was so happy. I love my mom. She helped me to get all this food for us, and I was so excited, I spent all night reading the first book on bow-making.
Now, combined with mom's very clever traps, we get lots of game, usually. On good days, we can get a stag and some rabbits, and we can last for a week without my needing to go out again. On bad days, though, we find traps sprung with yellow dust all around them. That didn't make sense a long time ago, and even my mom was confused by the dust, but we prayed to God for a revelation, and got one.
That day, our house was attacked. I was seven, and had been wielding the bow for almost a year at that time, but I was still so raw with my technique and was still so unskilled that it wasn't enough. The giant Goliath that faced us had merely one eye, but he was as tall as our house! Not quite as tall as a tree, but he easily uprooted one of the yearlings for his weapon. I remember shooting him, hitting his hand which blocked his eye and his arms which shielded his body, but all did nothing. He was unstoppable for little David alone. Little Kyle alone.
Then, my mom went after him with a kitchen knife, and she stabbed him in the thigh. I remember I was shocked. Scared. Surprised. And impressed. She had run after him with a roar that even her righteous screeches paled in comparison to, and her face was so savage that I shivered in fear. I thought maybe mom had been possessed by a demon. But if she had, the one-eyed monster knocked it out of her as he, too, roared, though in pain and not battle-heat. His small tree swept across her body, batting her to the side and wrenching the knife out of his leg. It frightened me, to see my mom, who had saved little David from fighting Goliath alone, knocked aside so easily. And, as she hit the tree, followed by the yearling, I was worried. My mom might be hurt. Or worse.
Then I was angry. I notched an arrow and let it fly, loading them more and more quickly until I was out and the monster resembled a porcupine more than Goliath. His arms leaked wood, but still he did not fall. Instead, he only looked angrier. He focused down on me, small little David alone again, and he lunged at me, grabbing my arm and lifting me up, forcing me to drop my bow only so he could step on it clumsily. I froze. I was shocked. That had been my best bow, my only real functioning one, and it had just been destroyed. And my mom was out, maybe worse. I was angry. Angry enough to scream, to yell, to kick and hit and perform all of the evil things we do as angry humans. I hit his hand with my fist, howling with fear and anger and the strange pain that comes from hanging oddly, but it did no good. He merely laughed at my futile efforts, poking my belly with a finger the size of my head before his coughing began.
I was still screaming, still beating him with my small ineffective fists, unaware of his situation. My eyes screwed shut in my panic, and I was exhausting myself, but when I heard and felt a large rumbling in the ground, I opened my eyes, stilling. The monster had fallen to his knees! He was coughing, shaking, and he threw me down suddenly as if I might be poisonous. I hit my head on the ground, and was very dizzy, but I was not unconscious. I watched as black spots started showing up on his body, like bruises, spreading like blood seeping from a fatal head wound. I was surprised. Nothing I'd touched had ever had this happen before, but just as his body was covered in the sickly purple discoloration, he coughed up yellow dust and exploded into a large pile of powder, leaving only his skull behind. It was ominous, but I supposed God didn't want me to think it a dream later, and so He'd left it for me.
Since then, many more monsters had come. My mom had gone to the Road for books, and I had gotten to go with her, which was really fun. She'd recognized the monster as something the pagans believed in, and had decided to take a stand against my father's agents of evil by reading their stories and teaching me about the monsters. I was lucky. Teaching was her calling in life.
She told me the monsters are evil and that true evil never dies, and so they will keep coming. She said that my father has sent them to come and get me and start me on a path straight to Hell, as he will never stop trying to do. I have nightmares about that a lot. Every time I wake up from one, usually having slept-walked to a corner and huddled in it, I pray extra hard to God that I don't go that way. I don't want to burn forever in the lake of fire. Fire scares me. And usually when I wake up, I really start to hate my father for sending the monsters. But I still pray for the evil things' souls every time they are killed by me, and every night before bed. I hope God listens then. I hope He understands my reasons for killing them. I hope He forgives me for such a heavy sin, even though I don't deserve it. Even though I am the daughter of the antichrist and was born to be pure evil.
I wear gloves all the time, now, to shield others from my unholy power. My mom thinks it's for the best that I only take them off when hunting, for her safety especially. She stares at me a lot more, now that she knows about my ability, and she hesitates to touch me when either of us are angry or extremely happy. Her righteous punishments have ceased, which confuses me sometimes, but she has told me that God has shown her another path. Now, I have to tend the fire at night and cook meat in order to prepare for Hell when I've been doing evil things. It's worse than the other punishment, I think, but she tells me I must face the fire as Joan of Arc faced it: without fear, and with complete faith in the Lord for my protection and the protection of everyone. Because she told me that, I always pray when I carry out my punishment.
It was when we were learning about wars that I lost my mind. She was teaching me on the day after the Sabbath, Monday June 16th, and I had just begun the monthly bleeding that comes with becoming an adult. I was crying a lot when I hunted, and I couldn't catch anything because my sobs were too loud to catch any game. My mom told me to stay home after I came home in tears a third time, and decided to distract from the growing, gnawing pain in my abdomen by going over another war involving the rest of the world. She was telling me about the clever traps and tricks armies played on each other, about how trenches had been dug to hide and protect soldiers, and about how holes were dug into the other camps so that they could blow each other up. At first, I found it interesting. I even thought the fact that penicillin was developed and saved many lives was a gift from God that could perhaps help protect people from me, in case an accident should happen. But mom kept going on about it. Making pointed remarks about how it opened up doors for healing those with incurable diseases. How it led to vaccinations that healed like my father always claimed he could, but how he never did. How I was just like him. How I was just as evil.
My mood soured quickly, and I felt angry, hurt tears burn in my eyes. Why did she do that? We were having such a good time together, and then my father has to come in and ruin everything. Why?
Her mood had worsened, too. I didn't notice, being too aimlessly angry for no reason. I was unreasonable, and stung. Was it my fault that my father was evil? Why was I evil because my father was evil? Why couldn't I be righteous because my mom was righteous? Questions like these popped up in my mind for the first time, and I was angry, so I voiced them, my pitch and volume rising with each question mark.
"Why, mom? Why am I evil because my father forced me on you? Why didn't you get rid of me if you really didn't want me?" I shrieked. Her eyes widened, but she answered me calmly, seeming almost to have rehearsed this answer.
"Because killing a gift of God is a sin, even if the gift was unwanted in the first place," she recited, angering me further with her composure.
"But I'm evil, so how am I a gift of God? What kind of God would give an innocent woman an evil child? Why would she be the victim of an evil pagan god?" I cried at her, realizing for the first time that perhaps I had been her divine punishment, that perhaps I was born to make her life terrible. Like Hell.
It was a very scary thought.
She was silent to these questions for a few moments, and I watched as her face morphed between a vicious animosity and a cool exterior. I had hit a nerve. As I'd hoped. She took a deep breath.
"We must not question our Lord, who works in mysterious ways. We must only know that everything that happens to us is for our own good, and to earn our place in heaven." I was furious. Why wasn't she reacting? Was I not good enough for a reaction? Did she think me a child? Was she even taking me seriously?
"Really? So, in other words, you don't know. You just let an evil man have his way with you because 'it's for your own good'? Are you-" She slapped me. For the first time in what felt like months, I was dropped from the force of a blow.
"That's enough from you. Go to your room and read you Bible if you want definite answers." she snapped, turning from me and beginning to walk away. I was getting up, shocked and angry still. She hadn't answered me at all. Why was I evil because of my father? Why was I the same as him even though I tried so hard not to be? What was I doing wrong? I didn't understand. It mad me so… angry! This was not the end of it! If everything happened for our own good, and if I was sent here to make my mom suffer, then suffer she would!
I stood up straight as she opened the door to her room, marched over, turned her around, and slapped her back. It was time to go forward with my purpose.