God twists its paths both profane and pious to suit the gore of the depraved, a cavern so great that not even a horse may dare jump across it. Pity to those who might come athwart such a visage, for it is an extension not even the Holy Father knows. Only God knows.
See the child. Vibrance paints his young features. He is happy, healthy, and plump. He is fed five times a day: breakfast, early snacks, lunch, late snacks, and dinner. He goes to their prolific garden to pick flowers and fruits, and to play with his younger sisters in the afternoon. He rests, holding in his small hands an encyclopaedia—from A to H, tiny eyes transfixed on every word, every letter. He reads it and rereads it. The child is enraptured.
Pray Head of God, Strength Granter, Fear Carrion Equus
'Tis God! 'Tis deliverance from all evil!
Overwhelmed with euphoric divinity, he shuts the leatherbound thing and chucks it into the fireplace with all the strength his chubby arms could muster. He shrieks banshee-like and scratches at his cheeks, wailing in revelation of his God. He sees in God's eyes all truths and forgets what it was like to be human.
The child was named Isaac, because he was always laughing and wailing.
His father had always told him to be quiet while reading his encyclopaedia. He remembers being told that he was "a loud, loud reader," deafening and obnoxious and curious. He had a very kind and carefree childhood—one many would gladly swap theirs for.
"What could I ever say to you? I do not know. Only he would know," Isaac's mother would say to him. "You are a good child. Your father gladly raises you. He loves you deeply, even more than your sisters. But do not ever concern yourself with the Bastard Children, only with your younger sisters."
Gleeful is Isaac, stating a line so rehearsed that he thinks it real, "Yes mother, for the fates they have bound themselves within are the doing of God."
"Yes, Isaac. I am proud."
There is a sort of silence that comes from the praise. He looks in the eyes of his mother, her gaze saying: "No. Do not even conceive of it."
"Mother, did you know that God is a—"
Mother's Stare, Hysterical and Exaggerated, Fool Carrion Equus
"No, my son. Did you learn that from one of your books too?" She says it with great scorn, yet she has a pretty smile on her face as she pinches Isaac's cheek until it bruises.
"That hurts, mother! No, I… I just dreamt of it."
"Good," she releases him from her motherly vice. "Speak of such things again and you too will join the Bastard Children, forever cast out from your father's love. Does my good son Isaac wish it so?"
"No mother, I do not wish," he says. "I do not wish for it."
"Rightfully so," she smiles dumbly and holds him by the hand. "Come walk with me, your dear sisters are in the garden and they wish to play with you again. Then, we will have afternoon snacks."
And his afternoon was so.
Come evening, when they were at the ornate dining table eating dinner, his father was not at its head. Only one of his sisters were sat at the table, beside Isaac's mother. An absent, waning feeling fills Isaac's stomach.
"Mother, where is father?"
She was hacking and slashing at a piece of steak like an animal, "He… He has informed me that he will be late tonight. When you finish your meal, bathe and go to bed early."
Yet as she says that, Isaac could hear a songbird chirping strange tunes and the faint muffled whine of a horse from someplace far away. He did not heed it any mind.
That night, tucked in bed, Isaac opens his encyclopaedia to the letter H again, lamplight illuminating the delicate words for him. Horses whine a lot, he reads. The air thickens around him like some warm blanket, and just as he was about to drift off to one of his strange dreams, he swears that the bookshelf beside his nightstand has moved.
Tonight, like all other nights before, he dreams of a horse looming on top of his bed. The horse slowly bears upon him, whining a lot. Just as it said in my book, he thinks. It throws his encyclopaedia away and he shrieks and scratches at his cheeks, wailing in revelation of his God. Once again, all truths are revealed to him as he bleeds below in his restless sleep.
That morning he is sore, muscles all tense from the nightmare. "Mother, I bled," Isaac says to his mother. Without batting an eye to him, or at least attempting not to bat an eye to him, she waves her hand as if to shoo.
"Your father told me… when you bleed, you must seek recompense at the hands of the Bastard Children. They are at the stables, tending to the hor—," she pauses, a dumb smile plumping her cheeks, "—ses. You know, them."
A tear of shame rolls perfectly down her silken cheek. After all, the Bastard Children are those cast out from love and warmth. They, of all beings, desire the love in crimson and the warmth of blood.
In solemn preparation for his conciliating pilgrimage to the stables, Isaac wears this day his stout leather boots. He finds it pleasant to step foot on the untrimmed grass outside and smell the foreign earth under him. It is then that he realizes that not once in his life, alone or otherwise, has he left home. He seizes the moment to explore the unconforming environment around him.
He knows the stables are just down the hill, through a dense thicket of the most verdant trees, plenty of time to survey his little world. Songbirds sing of melancholy, chirping and whistling in the strange summer wind. In the distance, far beyond the tree line, he sees a great red city whose pinkish, tender walls climb to the sky with a foreboding eminence. The forest hides all horizons from the manor's view, for he had never known of a city outside of the auburn walls he called home, especially one of such robust and imposing structure.
So entranced by the sight is Isaac that he does not realize a man pierced thigh-to-arm with arrows, tied to a dead bone-white tree—not like the oak around them—is whistling to him. It does not help draw Isaac's attention that his whistles sound eerily similar to the tune of the songbirds he heard earlier. "Blind foal!" the voice croaked.
Death Most Bare, Sainthood Carrion Equus
Isaac jumps away from the hoarse voice, stumbling backwards as he looks up at the strange person. He is naked, laid bare to the mercy of God.
"Who— Who are you?!" He grabs a rock for the occasion that it may be used for his protection.
The voice creaks, a cracked tongue spilling out of dried lips as he speaks again. "I am what has been conquered and triumphed over, known only by the moniker of Death Most Bare. For it is my humiliation to be trampled by the hooves of Carrion Equus and arrowed down by the great Godhand. It is with my humiliation most pleasurable that death no longer clings to the Fingers, now I am laid bare before their growing progeny. That includes you, son of—"
"Wait!" Isaac interjects, he hastily gets up and points at the figure with heated scrutiny. "You… You mentioned God! Uttered his name so openly!" His face bled religious rage. Pity to those who might come across his visage, for even the man bound to the tree, utterly humiliated and disgraced, could see the sorrowful naivete of Isaac. "I… I have read of him! Never must you speak of his name so obscenely!"
For but a moment, Isaac quakes the world. A voice sublime in its grandiosity, pathetic in its faith. Blind and bloated with the cluelessness of a sheltered child. The figure could not help but shed a tear of shame at this revelation. "…I should have known. Not all truths are told, not even to you. Then, my humiliation most pleasurable is not for you to set your eyes upon. Not in this very moment, for you are unworthy."
The strange man weeps deeply for Isaac, his cracked voice becoming a soothing whisper to his little ears. "Little foal, your face bleeds. Indemnify yourself at the hands of the Bastard Children by the stables and you will know the truth."
His head hangs heavy, eyes downcast. He speaks no more despite Isaac's intravenous paroxysms of rancor and condemnation towards the tied stranger's blasphemy. It only perpetuated his humiliation in the palm of Godhand.
It is noon by the time Isaac clears off from the forest. Before him stand two boys, grooming a dying pale horse.
"She is well over her age, soon we will bury her body with the others," they would say, yet neither part their lips to speak. Isaac remains far away from them, eavesdropping on their strange conversation.
"Do you think father will visit us soon? For the heads?" The first boy inquires, leading the old horse back to its stall. There is another horse beside it, though it seems to be fast asleep. The two of them seem to be the only actual horses in this decrepit stable.
"Heads? For the heads. Yes, father will come tonight. For the heads." The second boy replies solemnly, before looking in the direction of Isaac despite not even seeing him. For when Isaac catches a proper glimpse of the boys' visages, it seems that their eyes are hollow.
"You are bleeding, natural son of…" The other boy grasps his arm, forbidding him from uttering his name. "…of father. Please, come join us inside, you have sought us for recompense." They would say before entering the tiny abode beside the stables, and Isaac follows.
Inside, the air is musty and the space cramped and unkempt; the floor is entirely damp dirt. The two boys have a small fire lit and a pot to boil root vegetables for supper. In the corner of Isaac's eyes, he can see what could barely be called a bed, laid out on the floor with makeshift blankets and pillows of hay. There, the two huddle together, looking up at the sheltered child.
"We desire your crimson love, your blood. Come closer, we will tell you all truths and bestow recompense as we receive your divine essence." With hesitation, Isaac moves closer to the boys, revealing the trail of blood on his inner thighs and on his face. They grab at him harshly, and as one of them would clean his face, the other would clean between his thighs.
Then, the two children begin praying. "Oh, Granter of Strength. Bellow, bid your presence most invigorating descend from your saturnine folds of violence. To lay your heavy eyes upon this sacrament, this natural son's ichor, which we will drink and offer to you in sacred reverence. Press your palm most painful upon our foreheads and twist our thoughts so that we may bestow upon this natural son recompense and absolution from bleeding through his buttocks and face. Forgive him for his naivete, for being a child. He knows none but shall now know all truths."
He looks at himself, his body cleansed from the crimson stain while the two boys sit in front of him as if nothing had happened. Perhaps the only things that were not present before were their smeared smiles and the plump redness on their lips. "W-What did you do to me!? You too spoke of God's name so openly! So shamelessly brazen my skin now crawls at the sight of the both of you!" He spits.
Hideous, he thinks, now understanding what his mother meant by them being "cast out from father's love." Their ill-considered, venomous words, which simplifies the sanctity of God, fill Isaac with grotesque contempt. His name is unutterable for the truly devout, for the simple image of equine divinity is greater than any mortal attempts to denominate Him. Yes, it only desecrates Him, perverts Him, into something truly unforgivable. The two children begin to tear up.
"I think this pilgrimage most absurd was of no use for any recompense whatsoever. Rather, I believe your only agenda was for me to drink of this moonshine which you share most stupidly, thinking that I am but some sheltered muck. Nay, I am no such thing. I am higher than you. I am not devoid of crimson warmth. My father loves me, and I love him greater. He always reads with me at night, always beside me. Unlike you, all fed the same lies—which you think are truths—as that tied idiot gone—" Shameful tears rain down like sulphur upon Sodom and Gomorrah as eyes all-knowing look up at Isaac Most Naive. Forgive him. Forgive him for his naivete. Forgive him for being a child. He knows none but shall now know all truths.
"You are the son of All-Seeing Abraham. The Ring Finger which expresses deeply his desire for consanguineous paedophilic violence, the gore of the depraved, the raper of blind foals seeking truths. Unknown in nature even by the Forefinger, Holy Father Edgard. He is Violence Most Incestuous."
Shattered Love, Sin Most Depraved and Unutterable, Betrayal Carrion Equus
Blessed be Isaac The Dreamer of Truths, to whom were divulged the half-truths, his immaculate pearly lies now stained with gospel. "Amen I say to you, unlike our bodies, our mouths, our eyes, whose lies and purity were taken by father's sodomic hands, there is yet a beautiful blissful doubt in your child heart. For this, we have imparted upon you the brand which will show you the pathway to father most loveable."
Silence and the setting sun bathe with pink oranges the stable of the Bastard Children, leaving them to tend to their dying horses.
Silence follows the hastening steps of a sheltered child into the forest until the great red city with creeping pink walls vanish from sight. Into the white leafless tree, with the strange man erect and struck from arms to thighs with arrows and kept in bondage most bare. From a downcast stare to a burning, salivating leer, he mocks Isaac with the debauched whistles of a songbird.
"Foal blind no more! Foal blind no more! You are worthy! Look upon my thralldom most deserving! My humiliation most pleasurable! You are nigh at the zenith of all truths! Crowned in horse heads and robed with the skins of your siblings! You are! You are! Blind no more! I herald your coming! I herald it! Foal blind no more!"
He sings and sings and sings… until Isaac is sat on the dining table. His two younger sisters are nowhere to be seen.
"Were you granted recompense at the caress of the Bastard Children?" Sarah asks. He knows. Isaac knows now. Just as it was last night, she hacks and slashes at a piece of steak like a starved beast, and Isaac could swear to his God Both Pious and Perverse that the piece of steak was maroon like the cheeks of his sister. A waning feeling fills Isaac's stomach.
"Isaac." Sarah snapped at him with that dumbishly cute grin while the juice of the steak dripped from her lips. "Answer me."
"Yes… I was granted both recompense and forgiveness. Thank… Thank God. Amen. Amen." He repeats before finishing his dinner.
"Good!" She also chucks the last chunk of meat into her mouth. "Remember, your father loves you very very much! I think he is home today. He will read you your books tonight!"
Father, home. He is here. Did he take the head of the aging horse from the stables? Isaac nods and retreats into his bedroom.
Silence and darkness is perpetual inside. His favorite encyclopaedia rests on the nightstand. The pillows are snuggly placed on top of each other, the blankets neatly folded. But what catches his eyes, now branded to see the truth, is the bookshelf. In his dream—or what he thought was his dream—it had slid aside just enough for a man to slip through the space.
Isaac stares at it. He waits to see if it is the truth. But nothing happens. Nothing will ever happen unless he himself reveals it. So he pushes it as hard as his small hands could and lo. Before him is a passage within the walls, endless and cold.
He steps inside and will never return.
Dreams of love. Dreams of family. Dreams of lies. He repeats like a prayer in sync with his footsteps.
Isaac's childhood is not one many would gladly swap theirs for. Each and every echo of his small steps darken the way forward into deeper depravities that will yet lead him to all truths. Truths that Isaac now knows will grant him a cursed fate. Such is to dream of truths. Such is to be a blind foal with no choice.
Eventually, there is no longer any hallway. There is, however, a room of impossible proportions, phasing within and out of itself. Alas, these are the folds of violence. Isaac, in revelation of all truths, lays his eyes far above.
There, hanging on the skin of infants, crowned in festering horse heads and masked with the virgin blood from the tearing of buttocks and the blinding of innocent eyes, is his father, All-Seeing Abraham The Ring Finger.
Sulphur King of Consanguineous Paedophilia, Violence Carrion Equus
"You see me as all truths have led you here, Isaac. I have desecrated you thoroughly for this. I realized the genesis of an extension from Godhand Most Powerful when you were abed, reading that encyclopaedia of horses and religion which I made for you. I stole from Him the power of a new unutterable violence. I had to mask your ugly shrieks with sweet laughter. That is why I named you Isaac. Always laughing."
Why? Isaac thinks. Real tears—not of shame or of anything else—roll down his cheek and drop from his chin, turning the ground to flaky saltpetre.
"Why?" But he goes unanswered.
"Now I am ascended, stronger through this carnal violence unbeknownst to my brothers and sisters of The Hand. What I have become is truly all because of you. My greatest son and triumph, your pain fills me so. Your brothers do not come close to you. Your mother… Oh your mother, she has gone mad. She only bears my child in the condition that I give her two delicious daughters… And then you came, a reward for my endless devotion to Godhand."
"Why?" Abraham Most Divine's eyes bore into his very soul, searing him from the inside out.
"Isaac. You are God incarnate."
He cries fake tears, tearing away from the skins of failed children, from all of those who came before Isaac.
"You are my Carrion Equus, my suffering foal. Equine Divinity born from the all-encompassing influence of Godhand Most Venerable. This is my fate with you, this is the truth you were looking for."
Isaac's body twists and turns from the otherworldly nature of merely being within the proximity of Ascended Abraham. "Truths… All truths. I knew none but now know of all truths." He spits at him, hideous in form and soul. There is no being in this world other than Isaac who wished for a punishment such as Death Most Bare to smite Abraham. To turn him into a pillar of salt.
He, now in All-Seeing Abraham's grasp, closes his eyes from the weariness of everything and becomes one of the many failed children.
In his strange contemplation, he wonders how many—if any at all, he thinks—would experience something as foul and vile as this truth he has unraveled. He wonders how God can be both innocent and perverted, and how he has fallen into, to seemingly no one's upset or intervention, His filthy nature. The world itself is merely this way, he thinks. This is the world he was born unto. It is the world many humans are born unto. To be used for the benefit of others, or worse, to be used for the pleasure of their fathers.
Forgive me, world, I ask.
A short story from
GODHAND
GRANTER OF STRENGTH
End.
