Cherry Pits and Immortality

I pray for rain, but it does not come. As I stand here, on this land that I could navigate with my eyes closed, this land that has been desolate as all hell for all twelve years of my life and probably longer, I watch as the wind blows, tumbleweeds and dried leaves blowing everywhere. There is nothing in front of me, except my very own bare feet, scuffed and dried for the few years in which I have had no shoes, unable to pay for them. The roof has been rattling for what seems like hours on end, creating a ringing in my ears. I stand here, a handful of cherries in my palm, a gift from The Gods, watching the land of my home turn to dust. I can do nothing for this land, can do nothing to save it. Even The God of Rain and Thunder cannot save us, the people of Crete. Or what is left of us. All he can do is watch as his birthplace suffers under the scorching gaze of The Sun God’s wrath. 

Mum and Dad once told me that our land has been like this for years, all thanks to those in the past who were too ignorant to see the damage they were causing to land like ours. Who angered The Sun God and his sister, The Goddess of The Hunt. They said that our island used to be admired, where tourists — men, women and children from all over the world — would come to see the ancient ruins that had graced the buildings once here. The waves that had once lapped the edges of our wooden walkways, and sprayed the faces of laughing children, are almost non-existent, becoming another luxury that these tourists were able to experience. A luxury that I —  and future generations — would not. Perhaps we would have an ending similar to Icarus, flying too close to the sun, filled with the hope of a world without a scorching sun to end us. Sometimes I wish that I was immortal, so I could not be associated with the horrible things that mortals have done to Mother Goddess and my home. A once rich culture filled with Greek myths, Cretan music, and traditional clothing, is now gone, becoming an empty hole that as each day passes, slowly fills with the despair of those who are left. Even the strong fighting spirit of Crete is no match for the brutality of Mother Goddess. I can no longer smell the lamb that I was so used to smelling from Mrs Papadakis’ home that had sat right next door to ours, as she had become one of the many who passed from Mother Goddess’ revenge. I did not blame her though, I would want revenge on mortals too. Her home had crumbled quickly, the foundation already fractured when she was still alive and living there. It was as if it knew that she would not be coming back and did not want to exist without her moving and clattering around inside of it. The passing of Mrs Papadakis and the many other Cretans made me really wonder why I was here, still existing. What did I do to deserve to exist? Some may think that is a rather profound question for a twelve-year-old to be asking themselves, but if I am still here, perhaps it is a reasonable one at that. And as I fill my cheeks with cherries while pondering my existence, I wipe my mouth with my sleeve, the red staining the pale whiteness, and I wonder whether it’s cherry juice or blood from my dry, cracked lips. 

The rolling hills, a setting that could spark an immediate image of Greek mythology in one's mind even by the mere mention of it, no longer exist, flat, arid land in their place. The constant intense glare of The Sun God has led to soil erosion; the only fresh food I have seen are the cherries that now sit at the bottom of my stomach. There are no flora and fauna left, all of them long dead from the many years of consistent barriers and obstacles that pushed them to their passing. I wonder if they felt the same pain I feel now, watching everything around me crumble to its eventual downfall. When I was younger, I thought that The Sun God was a God of healing, but I think I understand; he still is, he is just sick of mortals walking all over him and other immortals, finally breaking and unleashing hell on all those who wronged him and his family. He could no longer write poetry, as immortals have killed all trees, the only source of oxygen… well, there is none that I know of. Maybe I am the only one alive, but how? The ravens that were once his are now Esylium’s, the music that once filled the air from his harp, now silent. Only silent, his lyre long forgotten, more important things to worry about. More important matters to tend to; the destruction of humankind. As the acid of The Fruit of God bubbles in my stomach and my foot scuffs back and forth across the arid land, my mind reels through all the mythological stories my parents had told me, the only things left of them that remain, even that not enough to quench my grief. Although The Sun God may be irrational and reckless, his actions are reasonable. The killing of all human beings, reasonable. Except for me. Why am I so special? Why do I still continue to live while others retire to Esylium?

You are one of us, young one. When you are ready, you may join us, and trek to Olympus. If you make it, all in one piece, we will grant you a place here. If you do not, you go back to the life you knew, waiting for The God of The Dead to take you. 

A voice called out to me, a far-away sound, yet from right inside of my head, the voice said again; 

You are one of us, young one. One of us. Do not doubt it.