“Apramor, why do you continue to employ that Ashborn child?” a villager said.
Mr. Akros. Always nosy. Always angry. This wasn’t the first time the irate villager had voiced his concerns, and Vir was sure it wouldn’t be the last either.
“It’s… it’s unholy!” Akros whispered. “My son is far more suitable. I can have him start on the morrow. Just say the word. Please!”
Vir ignored the man and climbed up a wooden post near the back, using footholds he’d made years ago. This was his spot, where the musky scent of incense wafted up to, satisfying his nose. A bird’s nest, of sorts.
From here, he had a view of the copper idols of the gods, Apramor’s lectern, and moreover, he was above the crowd. From up here, no eyes judged him. For these precious few moments, he felt ordinary. Like he belonged.
“And would your boy show up as regularly as the sun’s cycles?” Apramor said with priestly patience. “Would he arrive an hour before dawn to help me day after day, week after week? Hmm?”
Akros scratched his neck and looked off into the distance, breaking eye contact with the priest. “W-Well, he’s just a boy, after all. He may miss a day or two, but I assure you he’s as devout as anyone in Brij! Certainly more than the Ashborn. That boy’s not even a believer!”
“You will never find religion in a perfectly clean soul, Akros. You would know that, wouldn’t you…”
Silence. Vir thought he spotted a trace of guilt flash across the man’s face.
“Please take your seat,” Apramor continued. “And know that I do not seek devotion in my assistants. I require only dedication. Vir has not missed a single day in all the years he’s served me. He is one of us, and he is irreplaceable. That is my final say on this matter.”
Vir’s chest filled with warm pride at Apramor’s words. He only wished he could’ve preserved Akros’ expression at that moment. It gave him great joy to see the mean man knocked down a peg. That it happened in public only made it taste even sweeter.
“One of us…” Akros murmured, though Vir knew not why.
Apramor turned his back to the man and strode up the wooden dais where his lectern was located, in front of the idols of the gods. The hushed murmurs quietened, leaving the ancient temple in silence for a good half minute. Then he spoke.
“Today, I narrate the tale of Janak the Wise. Though he may not be as renowned as the likes of Adinat or Haymi, I find his story nonetheless profound.”
Vir wasn’t expecting this. He’d long ago memorized Apramor’s adventures of the gods that took them to wonderful places Vir could scarcely even imagine. He often put himself in their shoes, pretending it was him going on those adventures. Still, he could never truly relate. Every god of legend was celebrated and loved by all. Even the antagonists. Vir was anything but.
Though he hadn’t yet heard Janak’s story. Would this tale be any different from all the others? Vir leaned forward on the edge of the rafter he perched upon, hoping to absorb every word.
“The legends often portray Janak as a wise philosopher king, and this is true. Having ascended past worldly desires, he thought only of his adopted daughter, Siya. But few know the trials and tribulations he faced in his early years before he became a god. When he was called Janak the Desperate.”
Hushed whispers broke out through the temple. “Janak the Desperate? I’ve never heard of this! Wasn’t he always a god?”
“Janak began as a mortal man,” Apramor went on. “An ordinary man, and a flawed one at that. He grew up weak and frail, but moreover, he lacked even a morsel of ambition. He lost himself in worldly pleasures, shirking his duties as the son of a king,” Apramor’s voice filled every cobwebbed nook of the holy place. “His father the king, growing angry, banished him from their palace. ‘Fend for yourself. Perhaps then, you will be enlightened,’ his father said.
“For years, Janak roamed the lands. He lived in poverty, experiencing abuse at the hands of others. He witnessed the plight of the masses. Finally, he grew angry. His heart wept at the injustice of the world. He sought desperately to improve himself, so that he might one day lead his people. He strove to learn as much as he could, eschewing worldly desires, and eventually became known as one who sought to understand the workings of our world. Slowly, his ideas spread to all corners of the world. His innovations promised to transform society, but here he ran into his second crisis. His people deemed his efforts frivolous and wasteful. ‘Why question Adinat’s gifts?’ they said. ‘Why not be content with what we have?’”
The priest commanded every gaze within the temple at that moment.
“At his wit’s end, Janak grew desperate. Though his people never accepted his social reformations, he persisted doggedly on. It was a path foreign to his people. His ideas went against their beliefs. But he knew that to be content was to stagnate. And Janak wanted only progress, for himself, and for society. Through time and toil, his unrelenting effort swayed their opinions.”
Apramor’s voice grew louder and more vigorous as he spoke.
“Time and time again, Lord Janak proved his worth to all! The philosopher king’s ideas blossomed through the land and ushered in a golden age upon humanity. And, upon his deathbed, surrounded by thousands of his weeping citizens, Adinat himself descended from the heavens to award Janak the honor of godhood!”
He paused to look up at Vir, and, if he wasn’t mistaken, nodded ever so slightly at him.
“This is the true story of Janak. The story of one who knew failure. Who endured to find his own path through the darkness. Who, in the end, shone light upon his people and was loved by all…”
Vir understood. Sure, Janak may have been born with a silver spoon, but he threw everything away to pursue his own path. Vir wondered how Janak mustered the courage to take his first step.
When the priest spoke again, his voice thundered through the temple.
“The gods have chosen our destiny, but the responsibility is ours to pursue it through its many twists and turns. We will stumble. We will fall. There will be those who mock us when we inevitably fail.”
Apramor locked eyes with Vir again. The intensity of the priest’s expression sent shivers down the young man’s back.
“But know this! There is no effort without failure. Know that it is not the critic who counts!
“Only those who try and fail, again and again…
“Who pick themselves back up after they fall…
“Who persist, despite their flaws and many shortcomings…
“It is they who shall remain when all others abandon the path! It is they who attain the towering heights unimaginable by the common man!
“So that their place shall never be among those cold and timid souls, who know neither victory, nor defeat.”
The temple had gone so silent that Vir wondered whether the audience had asphyxiated. Because Vir almost had. Apramor’s every word felt like it carried the overwhelming weight of centuries of experience. It resonated with his very soul.
Prana scorned? So what? He’d find a way around it. Ashborn? Good. He’d use that to his advantage, too. He would persist. He would endure. And in enduring, he would grow strong.
Apramor let out a deep breath, as if clearing the heavy air that weighed down the halls of the temple.
“In closing, let us give praise to the gods who bless us so,” he said. “To Adinat, for creating this world we enjoy. And of course, to Yuma, for giving her lifeblood to our precious forest.”
“Might’s well pray to Badrak too!” someone quipped, breaking the tension and prompting a round of chuckles from the villagers.