Refusal of the Holy Storm

The howling winds rustled the window frames, the high hiss of fast streams that had made it throw some previously undetectable crack in the walls and doors. Everyone with any sense, as her mother had put it, was inside hiding from the pure grey sky. It was darker than the morning; soon rains and hails would start, the storm would get worse and worse, and there was only one way to appease it. Enlightenment. 

Taylina was knelt in front of the small shrine kept in the home, along with all her family, when her eyes had yet again drifted to the window and the growing holy storm. Her mother lightly smacked her thick with the back of her hands, the rings she wore scratching her slightly.

"Pray.” Her mother's harsh whisper snapped her neck back to the shrine.

The last storm lasted not much longer than this one, but she had heard stories of the first storm; it had lasted long over a year. The only thing that made her worry, and she had heard her parents and aunts talk of how the storm is progressing faster. She wasn’t to sure if that were true, but she had no real data to go on; she had in her 20 years only lived through 2 storms. But she remembered the storm cloud to be less active when she was a child and much worse after the last storm.

If it was progressing faster, why? And was it connected to the activity of the enduring storm cloud? Come to think of it, how does the storm cloud stay in one place years at a time? How would that even begin to work? Regular storms happen too high in the sky to be stopped or influenced by anything; this storm cloud is different as it is the representation of Anatoluniea. It supposedly stays in its place because of the temple right next to it; that's why the temple is on the outskirts of town, so that when the storm develops it surrounds the town not destroys it. But if it is Anatoluniea, why couldn’t they avoid damaging the town, is it another measure to keep us here?

Taylina often felt like they were not really a town, more that they were the results of long-dead prisoners. They could never leave, for anyone who scales the mountains becomes part of the mountain, anyone who travels out of the bay washes onto the shore, and anyone who dares go beyond the storm are smote. That does not feel like the actions of a loving god; why must we pray for weeks and months in order to enlighten? Not repent like other gods in storybooks, not worship like other stories, enlighten. A culture had been built in the town of great advancement, everyone trying to stay ahead of the storm. It felt like we were constantly trapped in a cycle of trying to prove to a god we were doing and being enough.

Or maybe she was simply overthinking it all. She worked on manipulating the signs in the weather, season, and stars, but this was not a regular storm; this was Anatoluniea. This was not something to study or question, this was the only thing above study and question. She could be killed for suggesting those thoughts, but there was something about them she couldn’t shake.

Being smote leaves no remains or reminder. Staring at the small statue of Anatoluniea's clouds above them and storms in hand, how would there be nothing left? It is explicitly said that they smite with the storm, no aspect of a storm renders a person to absolute nothing. To freeze in cold wind or rain or hails, leaves a body. To be bludgeoned by hail or debris leaves a body. To be torn apart by wind leaves pieces, if not a whole. Even lightning does not fully destroy a body. Bodies become a part of the mountain, we can see and study it. Bodies and ships wash onto the shore. Why is there no body?

Storms are permeable. The wicked thought came into her mind without her want or regard. It is an evil thought she must resist, they can never leave the storm is not permeable.

They said not to go past the storm cloud, not a holy storm. Stop, stop, stop. These are thoughts she can not have. She felt cold wash over her as sweat beads sprouted from her forehead.

Anatoluniea's domain is arguably the town what if you got beyond the border? Her breathing was picking up. She tried to focus on prayer, control her breathing. She was all for debate and thoughtful discussion of their god. These thoughts are not that, these thoughts border on heresy. She would call her thoughts a heresy.

But on the other hand, all thought is prayer. Every idea, invention, conversation, and thought is only possible through Anatoluniea. Every thought is one thought closer to enlightenment, so what is to say that this is not also? Who better to learn the mysteries of the holy storm than some one who can manipulate any other storm? How could someone at the forefront of the field that is the divine domain not be beloved in some way? Even if she would otherwise be smote, would she not be shown mercy for attempting to enlighten.

Yes, exactly. At the very least, she was reasonably convinced she would not die. There was absolutely something else going on here, the only question was what. When everyone was asleep, she would find out. It was the only thing besides prayer permitted, and we all slept the same time as a household; keeping a strict timeline and routine was the best way to acclimatise to the long days of prayer. She would slip out in the night, until then, try not to give anything away and pray.

She sat still and calm, playing out all she would do and need before she left. She would need warm layers of clothing, no one has ever come to the town from outside the town, so who knows how far the next town is? That means she should grab some food too, the nearby bay means there might be other bodies of water around, but water and purifier would be needed. She would need something to write down her findings with. She should also bring her tools to measure the conditions of the storm and season, who knows what she could uncover?

The real question over what she needed to do was a note. Should she leave one or not? Would it be better for them all to know that she willingly went into the holy storm, or for them to think she simply went mad and ran off. People went mad from prayer every storm, it was simply something that happened when one prays for weeks. The storm had only gone on 10 days, but she didn’t know how no one had gone mad yet, she felt much longer and she would. That is exactly why this was for the best she knew what she was doing, this was willing and wanted, despite what would very likely be said about her in the future. This was better than the madness she felt would grip her and her weak willed prayer.

She didn’t leave a note as she left; it was for the best. She muttered her sorry’s as she opened the door to the storm and left the home. Immediately she felt the weight and pressure of a holy storm; the air was suffocating in its rushing winds and fast rains. There was a humidity and electricity that made it feel unlike anything she had ever even conceptualised, much less felt or heard before. This was the power of a holy storm, this was the might of Anatoluniea, this was the requirement to enlighten or die trying. 

Enlighten or die trying.

She steeled herself and began to walk to the outskirts. A walk she could easily make through darkness, fog, or thick rain. It was the walk to the temple, and then further is all. But that was something strange, intellectually, she knew that the storm did not harm the town, it surrounded it. Physically, that was a hard concept to realise. She was hit with the beads of rain and shards of wind that broke free from the spiral storm around the town. The real threat of anything like a storm would not be realised until she was far closer, maybe not until she was steps from it. It only solidified her thoughts that this was not merely for enlightenment; there was something more here, and she would figure it out. 

So she walked the path etched into her memory, whether she had ever wanted it or not, she had been brought to the temple to pray every day. She made this walk every day since she was 6 years old, unless she was sick, not being able to walk the full distance any younger. It was celebrated, the day she had finally been able to walk the whole way; Zeynah had mentioned it in that day's service. It was the mark you were allowed to participate in sermons, hymns, and school after all, it was always mentioned when a child succeeded. A walk she could take blindfolded, that signified her right to live in this community, a walk that would very likely be a death sentence.

Before long she was at the temple steep. It was hardly another 10 metres to the storm. She could turn back, she could change her mind. No one would ever know. But she would know. She took a deep breath. It was muggy this much closer to the storm; the rain melded into the air more, making it humid and sticky yet still cold. As she walked into the storm, all she could feel was her heartbeat, the slight shake and hesitation in her movements, and water rolling down her face that she had to tell herself was just a tear.

She wanted to know what the storm was and how it worked, but it wasn’t possible. The storm was unlike anything she had seen or felt her whole life, yet she could not look at it. The wind too destabilising on her body, the rain too disorienting on her vision. She had to keep her head down and arms crossed in front of her head in a vein attempt to push through the storm. She could see a blue glow; it was whizzing by the opposite way to the storm’s movements. Was this what would smite her, make her go mad?

She pushed deeper into the storm; she couldn’t tell if she was even making progress, moving deeper through the storm or in an endless trial, never moving more than she was pushed back. Maybe she would only ever get closer to the edge of the storm by the town, she was getting drenched; it was weighing her down. She wouldn’t even be able to tell if time was moving if it were not for that heaviness, the weight grew and could only grow over time. That and a blue glow—it was getting stronger, more potent, brighter. 

Before long it was all she could see, then she fell, fell hard. Than everything went black. Just as quickly as it went black, she found herself sitting at a table, the table set for tea. What was this?

“Never before has someone studied my domain with so little reverence.” A deep voice across the table spoke.

Her head snapped up before she had processed the words said. 

“Anatoluniea…” She spoke in disbelief, stiffly bowing her head.

“Taylina Kine, not a fitting name.” He muttered, “Karah Valtrie? Much better for a prophet.” He mused.

Her breath caught in her throat; she fought not to cough in the face of a god she was questioning less than an hour ago. She felt something she could only approximate as pure terror in this moment. The fear that she would be forced into proselytising something she has questioned most of her life, it was visceral and horrific, and like her worst fears, all realised all at once. The most terror she has ever felt in her life, likely the most she ever would, in all likelihood because she would die in a matter of moments.

“I can’t be a prophet,” she whispered with shaking voice.

The crackling of a raging storm echoed in the endless blue abyss she was in. It was her, her god, at this table in an endless void of the blue glow she saw in the storm. Is this why there was no body, they simply became part of this blue glow? She couldn’t tell if it was her imagination or fear, or if it really did get worse once she said she couldn’t be a prophet.

But she couldn’t, not when there were so many so much more devout and reverent than her. Not when there were others who would never dream of leaving, not even in their worst nightmares. She was not like them, she cracked in her first real storm; she was a child who hardly knew what prayer was the first storm, and the second she fled to the storm rather than remain in prayer like ever true believer. They will remember her as a heresy, not a prophet.

“The will of a god is not for you to rebel.” He said, staring at her. He didn’t blink; she guessed gods have no reason to blink.

“But I-“ the cracks of thunder and lightning surged, and she flinched. She was making the storm worse, she couldn’t bring herself to defy a god even as she tried to leave him.

“You have two choices: become my prophet or die.” She felt her blood turn cold as he spoke.

“I’m not fit to be a prophet.” She tried to reason.

"Agree, and I will tell you what is beyond the storm and all of the storm's secrets, or you can find out for yourself, which is certain death.” He gave her the choice.

She couldn’t stay. She just couldn’t stay. She was fine being called a heresy, she could live with so-called certain death, she needed to know, to find out all that is beyond the limited borders of her youth.

“I would like to leave.” She said, her voice strong and steady, perhaps more so than it had been her entire life.

She stood up from the table and bowed to Anatoluniea. Sure in her movements, she accepted what she was leaving behind and what she stood to face. Death didn’t scare her, spending her whole life not knowing if anything her god, no, this god, says is real. She left for answers, and she would get them even if they died with her.

“I am Taylina Kine, I refuse the position of prophet Karah Valtire, I will face the world beyond the storm and its certain death.” She proclaimed to the shocked god.

“Fine” He spoke with disdain at not getting his way.

Before he had even finished speaking, the blue abyss faded away and she fell onto her knees. She didn’t recognise the ground; she was somewhere new. She hadn’t been somewhere new since she was a child. She could feel herself smile, she looked up and could see the storm, the town was off in the distance, and she would very likely never be welcome back.

She stood up and tried to approach it; she wanted to know what was going on around the storm on the outside, but she couldn’t get any closer an invisible barrier kept her out. The punishment and promise of Anatoluniea. She heard a boom and turned towards the sound instinctively, and she saw the certain death she faced.

A sky bleeding red over blue, ground abused with weapons larger than any person could ever dream to hold, the collision of season and geography. This was a scene she had seen so many times before. This was in children's books, spoke of at the temple, a threat of would happen with disobedience. 

This was the war of the gods.