God's Glitch
‘A BREATH of life has made me!’ the boy claims. Though his pallor, perhaps due to ailment or starvation, showed how dry the air was. Water that he or anybody else would have drank has dried. No trees were found in these lands, only plants.
The boy walked with crowds on both sides, head up high and his palms covered in calluses. He walked and he pealed. Villagers watched and heard the gravel crackle beneath his feet. And between the cracks, his voice emerged: ‘For when I return!’ … the voice grew louder. ‘… from the precipice of stone! Rivers are to flood, and land plants are to become arable and manifested not in dormant torpor!’ No one believed it except the boy himself. Though it was at a time when famine and starvation overcame reason and benevolence.
‘Here! Here!’ The crowd roared.
‘And when the serpent ceases to besmirch us in our utmost foul luck, we shall celebrate!’
‘Here! Here!’ Verbatim.
So, the boy set forth on a journey. He climbed the tallest mountain he found. It was difficult for a feeble boy. When he reached the top, the breath-taking view was so rewarding that he took a knee and then took two. He put his hands together and prayed. And when he returned, the town was in absolute glee. The river flood. And a harvest was approaching. People celebrated and chanted his Name.
Villagers embraced the harvest in a way that any villager would. They ate, danced, and ate again. Nearly everything was perfect, and the boy was astonished. It seemed that the more praise he got, the more pallid he became. When a man caught him off guard after a parade, his portrait turned an apparition. The man yelled: ‘So, prophet, how’d you do it? What’s next? What else are you going to surprise us with?’
What seemed once to be informal pitter-patter from the boy was now tuned to the ear, so much so, that people engaged and listened.
‘I am not a prophet!’ he cried. Everyone turned towards him. ‘In fact, I am hardly pious!’ The air went silent. ‘Indeed, the flood was a miracle!’ he continued. ‘But next season I, I don’t know what to expect!’
His last words went unfelt. Even the man’s questions were dismissed and the celebration was in full swing again. It felt as if now the entire world rested heavily upon the boy’s shoulders.
Next season approached quicker than the last one. To the boy, of course. Everyone gathered in the town square and waited to see water flow. Some diatribed the boy, others wanted the boy as their King, but their stomachs were growling. And moments before a raven flew in with a message from the farmers, did the boy relive every single climb.
What seemed to be a miracle, the river flooded again! And when the boy returned, he was praised but not like the last time.
‘Speech, speech!’ the crowd chanted.
The boy was known to be verbose in his sentiments only this time he hesitated. He gyrated to witness a smaller crowd and despite his greatest efforts, cried. Silent but loud and everybody watched. A man ran on stage. Only he, a farmer, picked up the boy. The boy’s palms were bleeding and the boy was exhausted. The farmer carried the boy off stage. He told the boy that some things are irrevocable and whatever happens, happens. The boy found a sense of calm. Meanwhile, the town celebrated. They seemed to have forgotten that a boy existed in the first place. Morals did not exist during these junctures; spoons doubled in size and everyone ate again.
After climbing the same mountain, the boy lost count. Perhaps the season was the seventh. On this climb, he took a canister of water and a pair of gloves that he made from tanning cowhides. He reached the top. And like always, he took two knees and prayed. On the walk back to town, butterflies and pastry were on his mind. Upon entering, he walked solemnly but turned genial as he approached the gate. With leer turned quick to frown, he stood before the crowd. Scolding him. The river had not flooded.
‘I, I don’t know what happened’ the boy cried.
‘Ha! The boy is no prophet!’ yelled a lady.
‘What a joke!’ exclaimed a little girl.
‘Goddammit! Oh, forgive me my Lord!’ said a priest.
‘Maybe we should just buy his meat?’ said a postman.
‘Yeah! How much for his meat?’ said a mother of three.
What felt like agony to the boy quickly turned to anger. Before anyone spoke, the boy stormed away. He reached the gate, paced, spit, and walked off with absolutely nothing.
The temperature rose and the boy was thirsty and tired. After awakening from a nap beneath a yew, he sat up to a see a distant glimmer. It was a light calling him. He approached until the light spoke, the words he heard, was God. Noah, as God called him, understood what was said to him. But Noah dismissed the voice and kept on walking. He settled in a village.
Years later, Noah was interrupted by a letter. It read an apology signed by every member of the town and he was being invited back. At first, he hesitated but did return. When he did, the gate awaited crowds of roaring people welcoming his arrival. Noah stood. A man came up to him. And the very first thing the man said was: ‘Hey kid, guess what? The river flooded!’ he paused. ‘Some would even say that it flooded too much…’
