A Girl, A God, and A Gift

To call it a shrine would be too great a compliment. It was the last one of mine still standing. An old, worn thing, wrought of granite and good intentions. I was nearly forgotten now. Modern people, with their busy lives, too busy to remember me.

I had served the people. Helped them hold onto the happiest sensations from life as they threatened to fade.

I, the god of forgotten feelings, helped preserve life’s smallest treasures. The warm breeze and the joy it brought on your first visit to the beach. The safe embrace of running into your parents’ arms as a child. The delight from discovering what ice cream was. The slight sensation of a perfect day’s air, neither too hot nor too cold.

I worked diligently to protect these feelings in mankind. To make sure they wouldn’t fade into the shadows. It was tiring, thankless work. Or it had been, until I met her.

Helena found me when her family moved to a nearby farm. It had been uninhabited for some time. I couldn’t recall when last I had seen a real-life human. She couldn’t have been more than five years old when she found me.

How she even knew what the shrine was, I couldn’t say. A small stone post, not even as tall as she. The only marking on it, my name. Written as a rune, in a forgotten language. Helena had no way of knowing what I was. Still, she took a liking to me.

“Are you lonely?” She had asked me. It wasn’t as if I could reply. I merely inhabited the shrine in spirit, not substance. All the same, she decided I was lonely. She made up her mind that she would keep me company.

So began a lifelong friendship, of sorts.

Helena would come to see me often in her early years. Showing me pretty pebbles, beautiful flowers. Or occasionally, she would simply come to vent her frustrations to her ever-listening friend.

“Father says I mustn’t play in the mud anymore. That’s not fair, is it, Rocky?”

My name was most assuredly not “Rocky,” but I didn’t mind. Not from Helena, my greatest supporter. Besides, what matters in a name is not the letters. What matters is the way the person or thing makes you feel. How the sound of speaking brings forth remembrance of what it is.

Later, as life brought more responsibilities and burdens, Helena would come to visit less. I didn’t blame her, I was still just happy to have anyone remember me at all.

Though she came less often, not once did Helena miss a visit. Without fail, the small girl would come to see me at least once a year. Never less than that. Never forgetting to visit her childhood companion.

It’s a strange feeling for a god to be thankful to a human. Usually, they only prayed when they needed something. Occasionally, they offered sacrifices when things were going particularly poorly. I should point out: please don’t offer us sacrifices. We god-folk don’t like killing in general, much less the senseless kind.

As the years trudged on, I began to feel sorrow. Watching Helena evolve from child to young girl. Then from teen to grown woman. I knew our time together wouldn’t last forever. I would enjoy this companionship for as long as I could.

On one visit, Helena wasn’t alone. She brought a man with her and introduced us.

The man laughed, “Rocky, like the boxer?”

I didn’t like this man laughing at us. The connection Helena and I had was special to me. A sacred thing. I resolved that he would soon forget a small, but pleasant, memory.

The feeling of walking into a cool, air-conditioned room on a hot day.

That was a good one to take from this man who dared mock a god. Not too important as to disrupt his life. A gentle reminder that us gods are a fickle sort.

A few more years later brought another noteworthy encounter.

Helena came alone, no mocking-man in tow. Or I thought she did. Until I saw the little figure waddling along next to her. Hand in hand they came, and Helena introduced us.

“Rocky,” she looked down at the slight thing beside her, “this is Arthur.”

I was pleasantly surprised to meet my third human. The first had evolved into a lifelong friend. The second, well, I try to forget about that oaf. The third, it turned out, was sweet as could be.

“Rock,” he gurgled in gleeful enthusiasm, then embraced me in a hug.

Strange thing that, to hug a small stone pillar in the middle of a forest. But hey, I wasn’t going to judge the attention. We gods love attention. I was even willing to overlook the small bit of drool he got on me.

The next half decade went by in much the same way. Sometimes Helena would bring Arthur, sometimes not. Still, though, without fail, she would visit me. I was beginning to think there was hope for humanity yet.

As summer turned to autumn, I began to grow anxious. Helena usually came to visit during the height of the summer months. The daisies blooming in the fields brought her much joy. She always plucked a few to adorn my shrine like a crown.

Anxiety turned worry to as autumn gave way to winter.

Where was Helena? Was she okay? Had something happened? I didn’t know.

Then, on a particularly harsh winter’s day near the end of December, Helena came.

Bundled up against the cold, I almost didn’t see the tears running down her face. She slumped down, leaning against me.

“Rocky,” she was trying to stifle a tremor in her voice, “I have bad news.”

I felt various emotions welling up inside of me.

Who hurt my Helena? What was wrong? Was she okay? I had grown more attached to this mortal than I could have known.

“I don’t know what to do,” she began.

Tell me, tell me what troubles you. Just like you used to.

I wish she could have heard me, to know I was listening. Instead of just talking to me on blind faith.

“It’s Arthur,” She burst into uncontrollable sobs, “He’s got cancer. It’s terminal, and I don’t know what to do.”

I had always been there for Helena. A kind ear to patiently listen to her problems and concerns. I listened to the joys of the woman as she grew up. I had done all in my power to help her remember life’s small, sweet moments. And it had worked. Helena had remembered all the little joys of her life, as did I.

Losing a child to cancer was neither a small nor a sweet thing, though. It was a dark and awful thing. A thing I resolved, Helena would not experience.

I’m sorry Helena.

Thank you for keeping a lonely god company. Thank you for all the crowns of flowers. Most of all, though, thank you for sharing the precious little memories of your life with me. It has been a joy and an honor to be your friend.

I hoped she knew I was grateful to her. If she didn’t know, what I did next would tell her.

Goodbye.

I thought the words as I made the ultimate sacrifice.

I destroyed myself.

So that I may save another.

Helena leaned away from me as she heard my stone crack. Then, watching through teary eyes, her expression turned to one of horror.

I shattered into a thousand pieces.

A shrine no more.

Inside though, I had left Helena a parting gift. Where once a forgotten god had lived in a tiny shrine, solitude his only companion. Sat atop shattered stone, perfect as if it had been picked that day, there was a brilliant, red apple.

I could still see Helena as I began to drift from the mortal world. Confusion and sadness danced across her face at the loss of a friend. Helena called out to me.

“Rocky, don’t leave me! I…”

“Thank you,” I barely managed the words as I came undone.

The sound of my voice like an echo of a thing remembered, floating past snow-clad trees. Helena heard it, though.

“Rocky,” She began, then picking up the apple, “what is this?”

“For…” I was almost gone now. Soon I, too, would be just a memory of a beloved moment. “…Arthur.” I faded out of being and into nothingness.

Helena knew, she understood what the gift was. What the apple was for. Her face lit with joy and hope as she picked up gleaming, ruby apple.

That it was for her son. That it would save him, curing him of that most-despised curse that is cancer.