The Accuser

“Archamirades!” said Jonus, standing on the high cliff of Mount Mapley as he looked over at the Mountain of the Gods over 50 miles away. The gods were so fickle – waiting for the perfect opportunity to reply, never wanting to seem too eager.

Jonus stood there, his tattered rags soaked all the way through, his feet penetrated by spines and rock jelly. What could this mere mortal have that the gods would want? Or was it the other way around?

“They’re not hearing you, my lad,” said Shella, Jonus’s wife and loyal companion. Jonus couldn’t help but demur to the voice of his life’s only love. They had been together in the valleys and in the forests, but the desperation of a desolate nature had forced them here. These were the gods of last resort. Truly, was there any other type of god?

“They must hear me,” said Jonus, weakening. “They must. We have shattered the Mirrors of Formaldhir. We have slaughtered the Hunds of Prane. They cannot deny the destiny of the firstborn of Jonus Perventor the Maximal Prefect.”

“Here,” said Shella, handing him an apricot that had been bitten out of. Who had bitten into it? Her? Why? Was it to convince him that it wasn’t poison? What if she had bitten it first and then added the poison. Jonus looked down at the bitten fruit, thinking about his entire life up to that point: all the trials and tribulations that he had been through, the endless nights, the fright-filled days. All of that to end here, being poisoned by a bloody apricot?

Jonus took a bite and chewed ferociously, as if that apricot were a roast lamb’s leg. This could be his last meal, so he had to make sure that…

“Jonus!”

Jonus was frightened to the bone. The chill was present within him and could not be relieved easily. He looked out at the Mount of the Gods, searching out that voice. Suddenly, the light in the sky went faster. Up and down it went, moving at the speed of a gazelle. Suddenly a ball of fire came out of the Mount of the Gods, covering the whole front of the mountain. Flames poured from every orifice as the light in the sky ultimately went away for good.

“What is it my lord?” said Jonus, losing hope. “What is it my lord? Do you have need of me?”

“Why have you come, Jonus?” said the voice form the Mount of the Gods. “Where is your accuser?”

“My accuser?” said Jonus. “You know that it is not I, but the Sultan of Parmagese who has the accuser. He has hurt more shillings than any rogue god. Men of that type cannot be helped or protected against.”

“Jonus, who is your accuser?” said the voice, once more.

“My lord, and my god,” said Jonus, pleading. “I must tell you that it is not I who has been accused. You must know fervently that I am of an innocent pleading. I have never been accused. I stand before you – a mountain-climber of sorts – blameless.”

“No man may approach the gods of Salazar without an accuser present.”

“What?”

No answer. Jonus thought for a minute. Had he not read this part of the old scriptures? Had he not remembered some important dictum? What would cause the gods to falter so? Where was the error made?

“Gods, gods, do not leave me,” said Jonus. “I only seek to understand thee more, that I may follow thee to the ends of the terrain, this plateau called life.”

No answer. Jonus was certain that he must have misheard the god. He stood there for many minutes, thinking about what he would do. His body was in despair. He could not stay there all night, for it was cold. Neither could he go home, for it was too far.

“Come, get some sleep,” said Shella, grabbing his hand and leading him over to the campfire which she had wrought. “You can eat your dinner after you’ve rested.”

“But the gods,” said Jonus. “How patently they ignore me.”

“The gods are the gods, but they don’t know what’s not a thorn in their feet.”

Jonus sat by the fire and then, picking up his blanket, turned to look at the Mount of the Gods one more time. It just sat there, looking like some empty husk of a structure. No identity or signs of life.

The next morning, Jonus stood at his spot, on the cliff of Mount Mapley, looking out upon the object of his recent obsession, the entrance to the Mount of the Gods. He was unsure as to what his strategy should be. How should he go about convincing the gods that he was worthy? What was this…accuser of which they so glowingly spoke?

“Gods, I implore you,” said Jonus. “Let down your hand. Allow me to enter thine kingdom.”

Nothing. No sound. The gods were silent. Jonus stood there, pleading with himself. If he could not find his quarry, then what would he do?

“Gods, dear gods, you know that my life is for thine glory,” said Jonus. “Life, love, everything a man can see, hear, taste, feel – everything I have is thine. I am…cold and hungry. It is in thine own name that I have chosen to seek; that name which is both sacred and full of tooth. I need your favor in this, my quest. Lead me to your pasture, and do not fall from me. For my sight may be thin, my pall upbraided, but I am yet still a man, still one who has only seen but one starfall in many ages since. Lend me your ears, mighty gods.”

“We have told thee,” said a voice from the Mount of the Gods. The flames began to shoot from the mountain as the sun sped up to its impressive clip. Jonus’s skin burned as he began to feel tired once more.

“Where is thine accuser?” said the god.

“What meanest thou by mine accuser?” said Jonus. “I have told thee that I have lived an upright life. Is my good word, my good, holy word, not enough for the heavens to hear and which to hold dear, I say?”

“No man may enter this mount who has not an accuser present,” said the god.

“I am his accuser,” said Shella, stepping forth from the shadows. “I will be.”

“No, Shella,” said Jonus.

“It is true, I have seen a great many things that he has done. Once he ate my favorite lamb. Roasted it.”

“True?” said the god.