The Temple Ruins

Roald Dortmund was the first person to see god in over 2000 years. An actuary from Omaha, he took in the full view during an otherwise underwhelming tour of Petra in southern Jordan. Ironically, Roald was an atheist.

He wasn't the only god, of course. There were 2378 from Mesopotamia, alone. But most of them had died, while ths one was still here, hovering and spinning without spinning.

The hot, white starlight of the sun bore down on Roald Dortmund's tennis visor through a square hole in the roof. Eager to find shade within the temple, Roald had walked too quickly, losing the guide and his wife, Janice. Qasr al-Bint of Petra had a blurred history, an ancient building placed over an older one, so there were plenty of archways with hallways that led nowhere, as well as secret passages unused for centuries. Most tourists stopping through either opted for the Great Temple or the Temple of the Winged Lions, but the Dortmunds were late for the regularly-scheduled tour, as Roald had to find a podiatrist in Wadi Musa who could provide him with a back-up pair of orthotics. The only tour guide on hand was a young, sour-faced intern whose constitution transformed instantly when he saw Janice, his expression knocked sideways as he questioned why such a beautiful creature would be married to this bespectacled dud.

So there was Roald, after thirteen wrong turns deep inside the temple, staring at the shape of god, an old man sitting on a spinning wheel hovering in the air. The wheel was vertical, like a chariot or a unicycle, but the gray-bearded man wasn't sitting on a seat or anything solid. Instead, he just seemed to float inches above it, which itself was levitating at the center of the room. One majestic wing protruded from the center of the wheel on each side, like those of a condor or a large seagull, softly flapping and stretching, as if reaching to soar.

"How are you doing that?" Roald asked.

"I am him of Mount Seir," the old man said, his voice more robust than Roald had expected.

"Doesn't really answer my question, but --" Roald started.

"I am he who sees all," he said. "I am god."

"Which one?" Roald asked.

The wings skipped a beat in their flapping, and the wheel slowed.

"I am the only one," he said, raising his voice. "The only one who matters. None of those other gods are real."

"Oh," Roald said. "You're Yahweh."

"None can pronounce my name," he said. "No mortal can look at my face."

"I'm looking at you right now," Roald said.

"This is but a metaphor," he said, waving a hand through the air before him like an adolescent magician. "As are the wheel, and the wings."

"Yeah," Roald said. "You sound like Yahweh."

"Okay, I'm Yahweh," he said. "I'm the god of Seir. I'm the god of Canaan, of the Levant. But you can't say my name, because I'm supposed to be the only one."

"That reminds me," Roald said. "Always wanted to ask, are you El?"

"No, El Shaddai is one of the Mesopotamians," Yahweh said. "The Hebrews brought him over from Ur. But I'll take credit for him. Lord knows he's stolen my thunder plenty of times. But I'm really the only god that counts. Plus, I'm beyond your comprehension."

"You sound like Optimus Prime," Roald said before cocking an ear, hearing a noise.

"You can't really see me," Yahweh said, waving a hand in front of his face.

"What is that?" Roald asked. "It sounds like Janice."

"Oh, god!" Janice uttered in a squeaky voice that echoed through the ancient twisted, connected chambers. "Oh, god...oh, god...oh, god...oh god!" Faint through the distance, her voice crescendoed rhythmically.

"I hear that a lot," Yahweh said, smirking from his rotating wheel. "Don't worry, she's in good hands. I believe she's with your tour guide."

Roald turned, shocked and confused, toward the sound. "Janice?" he asked.

"Take this with you," Yahweh said, gesturing through a salacious grin to a hammer resting on the stone floor. "It might come in handy."

Roald picked up the hammer. It looked old, with the same finish as the gray stone floor, but it was titanium, strong and light for its size. The hammering end was round on one side and triangular on the other, narrowing down to something not quite a chisel. Roald turned toward the sound of Janice screaming in ecstasy, then looked down at the hammer and hefted the weight. Turning back, he swung the hammer wide and clanged it against the side of the spinning wheel, tipping the perching Yahweh to the point of almost falling.

"The fuck?" Yahweh exclaimed, clenching his hands in the air, a rodeo cowboy without a hat, reins, or pommel to hold onto as the wheel wobbled underneath, rocking him violently. "Don't do that! You don't understand the physics behind this thing!" The wings flapped awkwardly, clutched empty air, and then flapped some more.

Roald leered ruefully, and walked out.

Left, right, left, left, right, Roald traced his steps back to a great room near the entrance of the temple. Janice strode into view, pulling her blouse into alignment and shaking out the long curls of her hair. Several inches of the hem of her skirt were folded into a cuff.

"Hello," Roald said. "We could hear you down the hall."

"What?" Janice said as she experienced a series of emotions, from guilt and fear to anger and annoyance. "What are you talking about? And who's we?"

"You and the tour guide," Roald said.

"His name is Dennis," Janice said.

Dennis, the young tour guide, slowly and cautiously entered the room. "Hey, bro," he said.

"He's onto us," Janice said.

"This is...awkward," Dennis said. "Where'd you get that? Is that a hammer?"

"It's not Dennis' fault," Janice said. "It's all me. I'm sorry."

"I forgive you," Roald said. "But I think it's time for a divorce."

Stepping into the hot, white sunshine, Roald looked the hammer over. This, too, was a metaphor, but a properly-built one. He could use it to destroy a lot of things. Or he could use it to build.