[image description: A pear-headed man in a nice suit cocks his haloed head, grimaces, looks upward and raises his left hand in an expression that suggest “Eh, what can ya do?”. Text reads, “ #13, Hieronymous Bosc, the small god of Things Going Pear-Shaped”]
• • • • •
Everyone makes mistakes, that’s what they say. Everyone screws up. Everyone gets it a little off the mark. But not everyone fucks up so profoundly, so completely, so utterly without room for discussion or dissent, as to call down the attention of Hieronymous, who appears on the scene only when the situation is past saving.
He circles first, silent, unseen, a few seconds to the left of time, where only temporal gods and gods of fortune—either good or ill—may have a chance to see him, even in passing. He walks the scene, taking in every detail. None is too small to escape his notice, for in this moment, before his manifestation, he is of unsurpassed power and focus. He sees all, he knows all; he forgives nothing.
But he walks, and he observes, and he sees the oncoming train, the inescapable consequences of the actions of a thousand well-intentioned fools, and when there is nothing more for him to see, he steps back and passes judgment.
“Well, that’s proper cocked-up, isn’t it?”
The words, once spoken, inform the universe of what is to come, and time crashes down, its path now firmly set, its consequences chosen. And Hieronymous is there to watch every terrible cascading second, judging each according to its own merits, eternally happy at the devastation, equally happy to call it all back again if circumstances should somehow change.
Pears are a delicious treat when not falling from a great height onto the windshield of your car, after all, and Hieronymous can show mercy when the situation manages to somehow allow. He simply prefers not to.
What’s good for the juice is best for the gander, after all.
[image description: This white-haired and tux-clad old Satyr wears golden laurels over the hearing aid in his pointy ear and between his little horns (one of which was broken off decades ago). Is he glum, or did he just forget his dentures? The single tear that rolls down his face has a golden glow. And behind him, a golden halo rendered in stained glass sits between 2 hearts - 1 whole and one broken. Text reads, “182, FORLORN MICHAEL, the small god of TOOTHLE$$ $ATIRE.”]
It’s easy to be funny when you’re young and hungry and don’t have anything to lose. When the future is yours, no matter what you do, and you owe nothing to anyone. It’s easy to say that the emperor has no clothes when you’re pretty confident that yours are still in place.
Forlorn Michael was a god of comedy when he first appeared. He owed nothing to anyone, and he pointed to the naked emperors and he laughed, and laughed, and laughed. And yes, sometimes he was crude and sometimes he was cruel, because both those things come with comedy, but he was also making sure everyone looked at the emperor. Guaranteeing that everyone would see his nudity.
No one’s sure exactly when he got a taste for the good life, for Valhalla whiskey and Olympian liqueurs. It happened a little bit at a time, eroding his foundations, undercutting his punchlines. Suddenly, a joke about Zeus and his latest mortal conquest was “in bad taste,” or “might not play well in Athens,” and found itself on the cutting room floor. That skit about Loki and the horses? Too much for the tender-hearted, inappropriate and cast aside.
He sold his ideals a drachma at a time, and no one noticed until he was a shell of the god he’d once been, purveyor of weak chuckles instead of cutting commentary, feared by none, mocked by all. He was beloved. He could have faded into oblivion still so well-regarded, but he chose to drink deep from the chalice of fame instead, and finding himself weighted down with something he could lose, he fought tooth and nail to cling to it.
Do not weep for Forlorn Michael. Everything he carries, he picked up on his own, and he could have put it aside at any time, had he been brave enough to see what he was becoming.
I think the artist is Matt Sanders but I can’t seem to confirm any social media accounts to link to. If anyone knows a good link to credit him, please leave a reply.
[image description: The profile of a faint smiling face forms briefly and a blue and orange-tinged Maxfield Parrish evening sky. Text reads, “248, Zephyr, the small god of a cool breeze at the perfect moment.”]
• • • • •
Most gods of wind and weather are very large. Overwhelming, even. They’re bombastic events that can fill a room with their glory, drowning out everything around them in with the sheer spectacle of their presence.
Not Zephyr.
Zephyr is very young, as a wind god goes, and very small, although these things are not necessarily connected; she has yet to give any indication that she might desire to grow larger, might one day wish to swell into a storm. She does not blow to crack her cheeks or freeze the world. She is the caressing hand at the back of your neck after a day has been long and hard. She is the breeze that knocks inspiration’s apple from the tree, that stirs the precise sheet of paper that tells the author how their tale unspools.
She is the gentle hand of spring against the cheek of a frightened child, and the cooling promise of fall in the sweltering heat of summer, and she loves us, loves us all, as only a still, small breeze is capable of loving.
When people ask her purpose or her portfolio, she only laughs, and blows herself away, for she sees no need in explaining to those who will not see. Zephyr is a god of wind, yes.
She is also a god of hope.
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Please join Lee Moyer (Icon) and Seanan McGuire (Story) each week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for a guide to the many tiny divinities:
