My ink befalls this page in frenzied, secret strokes. I will not survive through tomorrow. The Mother Penitent has seen to the destruction of my house. My sister is confined, whipped, scourged, cleansed. Our patriarch, my brother, and his wife, dead. Even now, their blood is spilling down into the dirt to sate our god, Moloch. I don't know if I can escape, I don't know if I'll live to see another sunrise, but I am penning this story to anyone who will hear, praying to any god other than Moloch that it will somehow survive. I am almost out of time, I am choosing my final moments to pen my story.
"Moloch will destroy mankind," the Mother Penitent would say to us all as we convened in the cathedral, "only the faithful will be spared." One from each house would offer themselves in holy penitence to be scourged, scourged with leather, cleansed of sin. "Only the blood of the faithful can pay for the sins of mankind."
We all surrendered our bodies to Moloch because we knew the weight of our sin. Mankind was an abomination. Moloch would triumph over the gods of mankind and destroy them in an ultimate act of judgment, leaving the world to the penitent, the pure, the faithful. "Through mortification our souls are purified."
This year was the final year before the ascension and judgment of Moloch. There were 200 of us in total living in the commune -- 9 major houses and 41 lesser houses. All of us, the lesser and the nobles, we could all feel it in the air, an electricity, an impermanence. As Moloch drew closer, the boundary between the spiritual and the physical disintegrated.
The role of my house was to enforce penitence among the houses. We were each assigned duties. Mine was to collect offerings among the lesser houses. My sister, Nadya, her role was to ensure that the people were sufficiently mortified, be it through scourging, starvation, deprivation of pleasure. The power of our god was strong in this final year, the air was thick with his presence, enough so that the major and minor houses alike were sufficiently penitent. However, in all houses there would be those who hid from penitence, those who lacked fervor. Nadya flogged them until they puked. It was her duty. Moloch accepted their blood, their tears, he heard their cries. Only through pain are we purified.
My brother himself, he collected sacrifices from each house, be it a goat, a dog, a turkey, or a baby among the faithful, each house had to perform a blood sacrifice once per season.
The trouble began one night when my brother returned to the estate, well past midnight. I couldn't sleep, I never could, so I slunk down to greet him. He had a wild look in his eye, his speech was rapid and slurred.
"They're taking Nadya. The Kulikova, damn them! They're taking Nadya, they're going to kill her. I should have taken more from them. I should have taken their child! First they will imprison her, then they will starve her, and then they will hang her. It's my fault, I never should have trusted them, I gave her up to them. It's my fault, it's my fault! I don't know what to do. There is no hope. There is nothing we can do. It's my fault!"
I tried to steady him, to calm him, but I was just as sickened as he was. Neither of us slept that night.
I was with my brother when he opened the letter the next day. He set it on his desk with trembling hands and a murderous look in his eye. When he spoke, it was barely a whisper.
"I'll kill them."
I choked on my spit. He pounded his fist against his desk.
"I'll kill them. They are selfish, they are unfaithful. They must be purified."
He spun on his heels and stormed out into the night, into the rain, to the estate of Guerrero. I threw on my coat and rushed after him.
"Don't you think this is rather... premature?" I said to him, raising my voice so he could hear me over the wind.
"Moloch will humble the proud," he replied indignantly as he walked, "Nadya is no sinner."
I tried to think of something to say, but found nothing, so we just walked.
At the gate to the Guererro estate, Viktor indiscreetly cried out to the guards. "I demand an audience with the Mother!"
I tried to steady myself. "Viktor, if she's free of sin," I began to argue, "she has nothing to fear. Only the sinners die in confinement." I didn't believe what I was saying, but I had to talk some sense into him. Waking the mother seemed like a good way to incur Moloch's wrath.
"Aleks, Aleks," he said, turning to me, "they're going to starve her and kill her. Only sinners deserve this punishment; her soul is pure. We are bound by piety to appeal this; we have no other alternative."
I took a shaky breath and silently prayed that we would not incur the Mother's wrath.
We were met by a singular guard. He led us into the estate, into the Mother's solar. The air grew thick and intoxicating. Moloch's presence was strong.
"The brothers Zarkhova. Welcome. Please, sit."
"Mother."
"Mother."
She was seated at a massive and ancient desk, its wood horrendously scuffed and scratched, but ancient nonetheless. We sat across from her. Neither of us wanted to speak first.
She set down her pen.
"You demand my audience?"
I felt a stab of shame. One does not demand anything of an avatar of the divine.
"Yes, the matter is urgent," he insisted, "most urgent."
"Go on."
"The family of Kulikova, they are impenitent. Two days ago, I required of them a blood sacrifice -- to demonstrate to the lesser families their fervor for our lord, Moloch. I do as Moloch guides me, and Moloch demanded the life of their dog. They did as the lord bid, but lord Kulikova had a glint in his eye, one of hatred. Not two days later, I receive notice that my sister, Nadya, is to be submitted to the Kulikova for confinement and purification."
With her hands folded, the Mother's cold gaze didn't flinch.
"Continue."
"Well," Viktor continued, "Nadya has always served you well, served Moloch well. She takes great pleasure in purifying the souls of the impenitent. I've seen her scourge the lesser houses, and I've seen her self-flagellating before the altar. If anyone in this community has a pure soul, it is her. More than anyone. Probably more than you. They don't want to purify her; they want revenge. The Kulikova are not serving Moloch; they are serving revenge."
I tried to swallow, but my mouth was dry. Viktor was honest, he had always been brutally honest, but he was an idiot. I didn't know if we would leave the estate alive, to state that one's own house was more holy than that of the Mother.
"Even by means of revenge, privation can only bring a soul closer to Moloch," the Mother replied, "I see no reason to spare her from revenge. In death her soul will be made pure."
"It's the principle of the matter that you have to see here," Viktor urged, "See, starvation could help her -- however, do you really want to let Kulikova act with such impudence, with such impure, worldly motivations?"
The Mother raised an eyebrow and one of the guards grabbed Viktor by the throat from behind and pulled him out into the hallway. I held my breath. I was shaking.
"You do not share your brother's lack of humility. Why?"
I tried to clear my throat.
"Moloch is our god. Moloch will punish the unfaithful. We are his instruments; we do not wield reason for him." I was regurgitating words I had heard the Mother say in the past. None of it was my own.
She smiled slightly.
"That was a correct answer."
She picked up her pen and started writing once more. We sat in silence for a minute while she finished her letter.
"Moloch has decided that the house Zarkhova must be made humble. Your brother is expecting a child, yes?"
"Yes. He and Maia are hoping for a son."
"Go to the herbalist and buy mugwort. Steep a heavy amount of it for a day to make tea. Make his wife drink it. It will give her a miscarriage. Your brother must learn to the full that he is not my god."
I was looking down.
"Look me in the eye.”
I forced myself to look at her. We sat in silence for a moment longer. She studied me.
"If you do not do this, Nadya and Viktor will die. Fortune favors the meek. You have your assignment."
I left the estate in ruins. I bought the mugwort as Nadya was hauled off in chains to be starved. I tricked Maia into drinking the tea, saying it would help with the discomfort of pregnancy. I wept when I heard her screaming, weeping, heaving, as her baby was aborted. I wept and heaved myself.
I did my duty, because I knew that it was the only way to save my brother.
Some days later, I came to the estate to find multiple guards waiting on me outside; not mine, but the Mother's. I felt sickened even entering the place; Moloch's presence was strong.
"Sit."
I sat across from her at the dining table.
"I have done all you have asked," I hurriedly said to her, somehow expecting her anger, but all I saw on her face was a smirk of amusement.
"Moloch has noticed your humility. The yearly sacrifice takes place in two days; you know this, yes?"
"I do."
"I want you to be the one to perform the sacrifice."
"Me?"
"You have demonstrated utmost virtue amidst the vice and depravity of your house. You deserve this honor."
I accepted the offer immediately but I felt no joy, no pride. The guilt of my virtue kept that from me.
The days disappeared as I prepared myself for the sacrifice. I slept maybe four hours between those two nights. By the time the night of the sacrifice was nigh, I was barely lucid when I inhaled the holy smoke. The people of the commune assembled before the altar, over a hundred, eclipsed in the shadow of a massive maypole. I was wearing the ceremonial frock, the three-eyed jackal of Moloch shone down upon the altar, silently boring into my mind.
The altar became a mass of twisting eyes, piercing everything. The Mother was shifting, indeterminate, vast. Moloch saw me then, more than ever. The victim was brought to the altar, and I was scarcely even aware of my own actions by the time I brought the knife down upon him. It felt good; I felt some release. I felt the joy of Moloch, the joy of my god, and in that moment I became an avatar of the divine. I don't know how many times I stabbed the corpse.
I looked, saw my brother's face in the victim, barely recognizable from the bruises. My vomit spilled over the altar. The congregation was laughing, singing, dancing below the maypole. I looked at the Mother, the shifting mass of eyes. She was smiling, smiling in her grace, her love, her benevolence. I knew I had to run. I ran, I stumbled, I left the frock and mask behind, I fell until my knees and hands were bloody, but I still ran. I made it to my estate.
I can hear the retinue of the Mother pounding on my door even now. I ordered my own retinue to barr the door. I do not know how much time I have left. The holy fumes are wearing off. I know that I am soon to die, I only pray that I am granted a swift death.
Please, any god other than Moloch, I pray for your mercy. I pray for deliverance. If none comes, though, may I die without honor. I deserve none.