Sacrifices

The sun was hot on his head. He could feel his scalp burning in between individual strands of mousey brown hair. Once upon a time, the heat hadn't been something to endure, standing as he had in the middle of the river with the cold water rushing past him. His legs would hurt at the end of the day, standing against the pressure of the current. It wasn't strong, but after twelve hours, it began to take its toll. He had always taken it as the sign of a day well spent, of a job well done, the tired yet pleasant ache of muscles gained in a satisfactory manner.

Some well-meaning and very grateful petitioner had build a fountain of sorts. A basin a few feet from the edge of the river and fed by the current, bubbling into a carved basin at a convenient height. It meant petitioners no longer had to come into the water to meet him, no longer had to brave the mud and the cold and the current. There was no pleasant soreness at the end of day when he finally laid himself down for a well earned rest.

It was a small thing, he acknowledged, watching the crowd milling respectfully beyond the even flagstones of the platform. It was a gift meant to honor, but entering the river to meet him was somehow symbolic of their willingness to sacrifice for what he could give them. Every gift given ostensibly for his ease and comfort somehow made it so now no one had to be inconvenienced. He felt distant from the job he had been called to do.

A woman came down to him, clutching a handbag nervously. He could tell she was a well-bred woman, perfectly coiffed and dressed as if for a society lunch. "What will you give?" he asked.

She made a motion towards her handbag, as if her offering lay inside. It was obviously that she could have emptied bank accounts, traveled with a banker's note for some unseemly sum of money. He had seen it before. Some came to him with illness that needed to be kept quiet, some sickness that would shame. He waited while she hesitated. Instead, she began to strip off her jewelry, all large and glittering in the hot sun. A devotee came forward with a simple wicker basket into which this solid fortune was deposited. He watched calmly as whatever secret determination drove her until fingers came to the ring on her finger. The ostentatious engagement ring came off with a single twist, but she lingered over the plain band. He had seen that before too. The money was new, the rocks upgraded with each climb up the tax bracket, but the wedding ring was original and thus it held the greatest amount of her sentiment. She loved the man that gave her the wealth and not the wealth itself.

He held out a hand, offering for her to come closer and an opportunity to save face and keep the band that meant so much to her. With a tremulous smile, she approached while he scooped water from the bubbling basin. He dribbled the cold liquid over greying hair. "Your illness is washed away. You are cleansed."

The woman blinked a few times, the droplets clinging to eyelashes and speckling the front of her tailored suit. They all expected some change deep inside, some obvious sense of being healed. Not everyone did. She nodded awkwardly in respect and picked her way back up the hill.

He wondered how long it would take before some grateful petitioner build a shade over the hot portico, or benches for the milling crowds to sit on. Standing on pavement for days on end was a different hurt than the pressure of the river, one that somehow crushed its way up into his back while standing on the reflective heat of the stones. There were some days he longed for the river. The thought was cut short as another came forward.

"What will you give?"

The petitioner held out food. A local then, with a different devotee accepting the offering. Very local, he surmised, the still-warm breads and fresh picked fruits going into the basket. An unofficial priesthood took care of these offerings, self-appointed individuals taking up the task of overseeing the collection and distribution. He never paid attention to their doings, just what they offered. Whatever wasn't needed for his own house was given back to those that waited on the banks, divided among those that obviously had not eaten in a while.

"Your illness is washed away. You are cleansed."

The petitioner took a deep breath, smiling as he realized he didn't feel any private pain any more.

Several hours went by, petitioners coming forward one by one. Sometimes in groups where someone's illness required they be helped - or even carried - down the hill to where he stood uncomfortably on the bare stone. He couldn't remember how long he had been doing this. The years spent eradicating the diseases that ate away uncounted peoples. Perhaps some grateful petitioner would build him a chair.

A young man came forward, his nervousness obvious under the overdone swagger of his walk. An illness that would unman him, he decided, but something deadly enough to bring him here, to admit he was even sick. He had seen that before too. Countless times.

"What will you give?"

From beneath a baggy jacket came a gun. A devotee came forward to take it, to disassemble it and slag the parts. The gunshot took them all by surprise, the bullet in the shoulder nocking him back to the edge of the rippling water.

"Worship no false gods!"

A second shot in the gut nocked him in, to be swept away by the current. He didn't remember the water being so swift, the screaming crowds on the bank vanishing as he was born away. It was quiet save the roar of his own heart and the water in his ears. The water in his lungs hurt worse than the wound low in his belly as coughed and sputtered, trying to speak.

"Thank you."