The Little Gods

His mother leaned against the frame of his door. She rubbed her right thumb over and over with the other one, biting her lip. “Sweetie, this has to stop.”

He took another lump of clay out of his bag and slapped it on the table. She’d tried not buying it anymore, but he’d just stolen some from school.

“Craig, please!”

He heard the sharp edge to her voice, her last defense before she spills over into tears, but he didn’t care. Twins. He needed twins. Splitting the clay in two, his fingers moved into the familiar motions. He formed heads, necks, and the two sets of arms. It was here that he paused—should he try something a little more interesting? Something with lots of arms, like a scorpion or an octopus? No. Twins were perfect, two halves of a whole.

The phone rang.

His mother made a frustrated noise in the back of her throat. “When I come back here, you’d better not be doing that anymore.”

Craig ignored her, concentrating on teasing legs out of the clay. On one body, he added a few strips for long hair on the head—they would be brother and sister.

“I—I mean it!” Biting her lip again, she left. The heavy door swung half-closed, releasing the smell of new wood and fresh paint.

He sniffed at the odor. The pain made him a little sick to his stomach, but he didn’t care. Using her fingernail, Craig attached tiny pieces of clay to make the eyes, noses, and mouths. As an afterthought, he added horns to the male figurine. He would be a hunter.

Smoothing out one last rough edge, Craig held one figure in each hand. He turned them over carefully, searching for any imperfections.

Then he glanced at the doorway to make sure she was really gone. Reassured, Craig reached under his desk for the blue, plastic box hidden underneath it. He set the statues down first, to avoid bumping them.

It was a pencil box he’d stolen from the girl who sat behind him in class. She’d been sick for a few days and left it behind; he’d needed something to store his tools in. It seemed like fate, so he took it. It was perfect for his purpose.

Opening it, Craig took out the needle and box of matches. A quick swipe lit a match and he ran it over the needle until the thin metal gleamed red. Then he blew out the match and waves it in the air. Needle now clean, he pricked both of his middle fingers, raising a drop of blood on each. He pressed the blood to the eyes, mouths, chests, and foreheads of the figures until the features were coated.

Craig squeezed more blood from his fingers and smeared it over a crumpled dollar bill he’d found in the street. Striking another match, he burned the money, mumbling nonsense syllables as he did so.

“Sweetie, that was your school. Did you take—oh, no. No!”

He felt his fists clench, but forced them to relax. Folding them, Craig concentrated all his thoughts on the two clay statues.

“You promised me that you would stop this.”

He’d said no such thing! Outraged, he accidentally stopped his internal chanting. He shook his head to remove the stray thought. This part was the most important, so it was the hardest.

“Stop it! Stop it right now.”

Craig jumped as his mother grabbed his shoulder. Luckily, he was already done with the ritual, but he glared at her anyway. She had no right to touch him. He turned to the little gods instead, to admire his handiwork.

Their movement started with slow, ineffectual twitches. Finally they gained enough control to start looking around, though they remained lying down. Their mouths opened and closed, emitting small squeaks and noises. The woman was the first to move properly, clambering to her feet with only a few false starts. She stared up at Craig.

His mother let go of Craig backing away with a low moaning noise. Cupping her hands, she pressed them around her eyes. “Please, Craig, don’t—don’t—”

The male eventually climbed to a standing position as well, with a great deal of difficulty. His horns, Craig was surprised to see, had grown into antlers. The small man waved a hand at Craig’s mother.

Leaves fell from out of nowhere, landing on the woman’s head. She didn’t seem to notice.

A god of trees as well as the hunt, Craig thought, pleased.

Seeing her brother’s achievement, the woman screwed up her face and waved her hand towards Craig’s mother as well. A shower of raindrops moistened the leaves and a tiny spark split the air above her.

And a weather goddess. Craig smiled. They would be good gods.

His mother had uncovered her eyes to stare at the twins. Reaching up, she brushed the leaves off her head, biting her lip so hard that she left white marks. “They’re—they’re really good, Craig. Very pretty. Best yet. Now why don’t I make you some lunch? A tuna sandwich, maybe?”

The gods began to explore Craig’s desk. They squeaked and chattered to each other at each encounter with something new. He never got tired of this part.

“You like tuna, sweetie. . . I’ll cut the crusts off. . .”

Then Craig frowned. Something was wrong with the hunting god. He was—he was limping! Dragging his left foot behind him. His lips pressed together, Craig snatched the god off the desk to look at him.

“Please, sweetie, leave the poor thing alone.”

Craig pinched the foot between his fingers. His face turned white when the pressure made a dent in it. The foot was still clay. Craig squeezed harder, crushing it. The little god screamed, the sound recognizable even at the low volume.

“No!” The word burst out of his mother. “Don’t hurt it, please! Stop it!”

What kind of hunting god couldn’t even walk? It was wrong. No good. Craig took hold of one of the antlers and twisted it off, with a corresponding cry of pain. He felt the air crackle above him as the little weather goddess tried to help her brother, but it didn’t bother him. The hair on his arms rose as she tried again. Craig winced that time—the electricity felt uncomfortable as it ran though his newly healed wrist.

He felt no pain, only anger, when his mother grabbed the same wrist, trying to pry the little god out of his hands. “Craig, you’ve got to stop this. Give it to me!”

Craig wrestled out of her grip, retreating to the other side of his desk. He pulled the other antler off. This time, a trickle of blood flowed down from the injury.
Both the gods were shrieking now. A wind picked up in the room. His mother moaned and she backed away to the wall. Her knees buckled and she fell, pressing her forehead against the carpet.

“It’s your fault!” Craig screamed. He shook the god at her, its limbs jerked around by his movement. “It’s all your fault.”

“Please. . . don’t. . . I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.” His mother crumpled into herself, holding her shoulders with both hands and rocking, still crouched on the ground.

Craig threw the little god at her. He missed and it slammed against the wall with another loud scream before going silent. It bounced off and fell to the floor, its unmoving form a few inches from his mother’s right leg. “You did this. You interrupted me! Everything you do is—is stupid and—and wrong! I hate you, I hate you!” He yelled so loud that spit flew from his mouth.

She rocked harder. “I know, I know. . . oh god!” The wind grew stronger, pushing Craig’s posters so they fluttered on the walls. “It’s all my fault; I should have done something sooner. God forgive me. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The little goddess jumped up and down on the desk, her shrill tones full of rage. Running to the box, she grabbed the needle, holding it like a spear. She leapt off the desk, aiming for Craig.

He avoided her easily, slapping her out of midair. The wind stopped as the weather goddess was thrown backwards onto the desk from the blow. The needle, torn free, clattered back into the box. “You didn’t stop her.” Craig stared at his mother with hate. “You didn’t try to stop her!” He grabbed things from his desk and began to throw them at her. A pen hit her in the cheek, just missing her eye. Snatching the box, he hurled that too. It hit her in the head and everything fell out around her. He kept throwing ever he could, tears running down his face. “You never stopped him, either! You didn’t even try!”

His mother sobbed. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I just—I—oh, god!” She stopped rocking, sitting up. A bright red spot marked where the pen hit. “But he’s dead, Craig! Can’t—you’ve got to forget him!”

Forget?

The same doctor who stitched his mother’s injury is setting Craig’s wrist now. “Your father’s in surgery,” he says softly, his eyes on the delicate work. “He’s had a heart attack.”

Craig doesn’t say anything. He has his teeth clenched to keep from throwing up. Throwing up is not allowed.

“How’d you break your wrist, Craig?” the man asks. He starts to prepare the cast, glancing at Craig as he does so.

Craig shakes his head.

“Is it the same way your mommy broke hers last month? Because she wouldn’t tell me either.”

Where is his mother? Why isn’t she here? She should be next to him, promising to take him out for ice cream. Craig looks around wildly, finally spotting her at the far end of the ER. She is talking to a police officer, her stitches standing out in the tiny shaved spot in her hair.

“Did the same thing happen to your wrist as what happened to your arm and eye last year?” The doctor starts putting the cast on. He looks straight into Craig’s face. “Craig. Did you hear what I said about your dad having a heart attack? It was a bad one. He’s very sick.”

Craig lifts his head, his lower lip quivering. “Good!”

The noise in the ER disappears around his outburst and everyone turns to stare at him. His mother presses the back of her hand to her mouth and runs to him, but it’s—

"Too late,” Craig mumbled, not realizing he was doing it. Spent by his fury, he slumped back into his chair.

“Craig. . . please. . .”

He blocked her out. Seeing the crumpled form of the little goddess as if for the first time, he swept her off his desk like an errant piece of paper.

“Please. . .”

Pulling out another lump of clay, Craig put it on his desk. His hands—the palm of the right one bleeding a little from the needle when he’d hit the weather goddess—moved into their familiar positions.

“Don’t hate me. Please don’t hate me. I—I was so afraid. . . I thought. . . I thought that if I stood in front of you, tried to stop him, he’d even angrier. I thought—oh god! I was sure he’d kill us both. That was going to be the last time, I swear! We were going to leave the next morning. . . I had our suitcases all packed. Please, sweetie! I love you so much. I’m so sorry.”

This one would be perfect. And strong. It would have so much power that it would be able to bring his father back from the dead

Craig would punish him for everything he’d done. He’d take a long time to do it, and make him very sorry. And then, when his father had made up for all the pain, Craig would kill him again.

That’s what you do with monsters.