Chapter Text
From ‘City to Country: A Study of Deity-Based City Planning’ by Jonathan Sims, p. 13.
“Recent archaeological evidence has thoroughly supported the theory that cities formed around the worship sites of deities rather than the other way around3. This theory, which is also strongly supported by the oral histories of rural communities4, sheds light on several unanswered questions within theological research circles, including differing worship site materials in urban versus rural areas and the relative abundance of major and minor deities in cities of varying sizes. Fertility gods, for example, which make up 21.5% of the divine population, are most commonly found in small rural communities where farming forms a major portion of the town’s economic structure5. On the other end of the spectrum, London is home to some of the largest temples in the world and is most notable for its connection to gods of clairvoyance, knowledge, and truth, of which there are only six currently known6. Collecting more oral accounts of village histories and ancient worship practices is the subject of future research.”
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Jon opens the cottage door to a cloud of dust and the smell of mildew and old wood. The dust itches at his eyes and nose, and he almost drops his bags as he sneezes violently. The sound echoes through the empty space in front of him, and the force of it makes his eyes water.
Lovely.
The cabin sits atop a grassy knoll and is really quite idyllic if one ignores the fact that it looks like nobody’s been here for about a decade. The walls are made of sanded wood planks, surprisingly insulated from the lingering spring chill, and the window shutters are painted a peeling forest green. There are bushes lining the front wall and a patch of dirt that must have once been a vegetable garden off to the side, and if one squints, they can see cows in the distance, little brown flecks in a sea of green, waving grass.
Jon’s always wanted to visit the Scottish countryside. He can’t decide if he’s surprised or unsurprised at how much it takes his breath away.
It’s late, and Jon has spent too much time traveling to do anything but set his bags down and collapse onto the queen-sized bed that occupies the single bedroom in the house. He almost immediately peels himself off it and forces himself through the motions of changing the sheets as the shockingly large cloud of dust that bloomed from the bed slowly settles again. The new sheets smell like mildew but, underneath that, faintly of lavender, so Jon tells himself that they’re clean and curls up under them.
He takes a deeper breath, and on the exhale, he thinks, These sheets smell like my grandmother’s. But that thought makes something sharp lodge in his chest, so he closes his eyes and tries not to think at all.
The day Jon’s grandmother died had been just like any other day. That was the odd thing about death, Jon thought as he took his phone away from his ear and stared out the window of his office. It happened on sunny Tuesday afternoons just as often as it happened on rainy Friday nights or snowy Monday mornings or at the stroke of midnight, where one day turned into another and it couldn’t really be said whether you truly died on a Saturday or a Sunday. And there was no warning, nothing to prepare yourself, no deity of death breathing the words into your ear before you got a call from the hospital to say that your grandmother was admitted just a few hours ago, heart attack, did what we could, sorry for your loss, you can make arrangements—
No, there was no time at all. No demarcation between the before, when Jon had a family, small as it was, and the after, when he was alone. Just a phone call and a pit in his stomach where before there had been the remains of an iced London Fog.
There were twenty-one ungraded papers sitting on his desk that he needed to have done by tonight if he wanted to stay on schedule for the rest of the term. I should get those done, he thought faintly, staring down at his desk. He was still holding his phone; it shook ever so slightly in his hand.
Jon left the papers, called out for the rest of the day, and caught the next train to Bournemouth. It was still a Tuesday afternoon, and it was still sunny. Not a cloud in the sky.
Somehow, despite the way it reminded Jon of life and warmth and hope, it still seemed fitting in a way. His grandmother deserved a nice day on which to die.
It took startlingly little time to make all the necessary arrangements. Maybe Jon floated away from himself for some (or most) of it, because the next thing he knew he was standing in a little temple of death near the shoreline, dressed in mourning clothes that itched at his skin and watching the god of that temple perform the standard rituals.
(Oliver, Jon recalls, was his name, or at least the name he gave to humans, and he had been nice and kind and willing to humor Jon’s awkward attempts at conversation while preparations were made. Death gods tended to be more personable than most, perhaps because of how closely they worked with such an intimate part of human existence. Still, Jon knew it wasn’t strictly polite to speak to one directly. Included it in his lectures, even—how gods were to be treated with respect, even if one didn’t feel particularly inclined toward actual worship, how they could be mercurial, kind and welcoming one moment and cursing you to live out the rest of your short life as a fly the next. But he had been the only one left able to see to the preparations—his grandmother had friends, ones who came to the funeral, but he was her only remaining family and thus the only one allowed to tend to things before the ceremony—and maybe he had been just a little bit desperate for somebody to talk to.
Not that Oliver had seemed to mind. Maybe Jon was projecting, but it seemed that Oliver, too, enjoyed having some company, if just for a short while.)
And then it was over and he was back at his office, staring down at the same papers from … one week ago? Two? Time was slippery at the moment, escaping Jon when he tried to grasp it. But work was comfortable. Work was consistent and routine and it occupied enough of his mind that it didn’t allow him the time to think about anything else. So he…
Well. He buried himself in it. And when he finally came up for air, the semester was over and he was blinking dirt out of his eyes and coughing it out of his lungs and his department head was dropping the form for a sabbatical in his inbox, a subtle but firm suggestion.
Jon was hesitant at first, but … a sabbatical was still work, wasn’t it? Time to himself to do a project he was passionate about, to conduct research he didn’t have time to do normally. It wouldn’t be the same as sitting around his flat, staring at the wall and thinking about all the time he hadn’t spent with his grandmother before she passed. It would—and he admitted this begrudgingly as he submitted the form just before the deadline—probably do him a bit of good, to be honest.
His sabbatical was approved before the week was out. Maybe the fastest his university had ever gotten something done, he thought wryly. Scotland, he had listed on the form after Daisy had subtly-not-subtly mentioned that she owned a bit of land up near Inverness. Research focus: the study of local deities related to the unique folklore and tradition of rural Northern Highland communities with the intent of building upon the deity-centric theory of human settlement structure and identifying how culture has evolved alongside worship in rural areas.
Jon even managed to feel a bit excited as he packed his bags and bought his train ticket. Then, he thought of how his grandmother had never been to Scotland—had never even left England—and his excitement dried up in an instant like washed-up starfish on the beach at noon.
The following week, he was on a train whisking him out of Oxford and through the English countryside. A few seats in front of him sat a family, one father holding a teary-eyed toddler on his knee and the other pointing out the window for the benefit of the older child sitting across from him. And if Jon spent the whole train ride thinking about the fact that he had just bid farewell to the last of his family…
Well. At least he kept it to himself.
Jon hadn’t anticipated just how quiet it would be at Daisy’s cottage. He definitely hadn’t anticipated how that quiet settles something inside of him, like balm on an injury he didn’t know he had. He grew up in Bournemouth, in a small house on a long street of small houses, and then he moved to Oxford for university and made a home for himself in the city. His life has, up until now, been filled with the chatter of people and the honking of horns and all the other sounds that come with living in close proximity to other people. He doesn’t mind that kind of life—takes a sort of comfort in it, actually, the knowledge that he isn’t alone even if he feels it.
But the stillness at the cottage is freeing. Jon wakes to the sounds of birds chirping, takes his tea as the faint mooing of cows bleeds in through the open windows, hears the creaking of wood as the wind blows across the hills and against the cabin walls, listens to the gravel crunch under his shoes as he walks along a road populated by him and him alone. His sole company is the cows that approach him curiously, tufts of orange-brown fur covering their eyes, and the skinny tabby cat that lurks around the cottage whose trust Jon is still working on gaining. He’d thought the lack of human presence would make him more aware of the loss still sitting in the pit of his stomach, heavy and solid, but it’s … it’s nice to have the space to process things. To know that he’s currently alone by choice, not by happenstance, and that he has the freedom to just be. So much of the last few weeks have felt like a performance, like he needed to prove to people that he was fine and that he didn’t need to be coddled and that he didn’t need their pity. Here, if Jon cooks one of his grandmother’s old recipes and a few tears drip into the sauce he’s stirring, there’s nobody he has to defend himself to.
Jon lets the solitude envelop him like a weighted blanket, warm and comfortable and safe.
It’s a few days later when he first meets the man who pets the cows.
It’s on his way back from town—a little village called Holly Creek, barely big enough for all the necessary businesses, quaint in a way that Jon hadn’t realized existed outside of the pages of books. It’s barely a twenty-minute walk from end-to-end of it, the streets lined with little corner stores and family-owned businesses and a single chain takeaway restaurant that stands out from the rest of the town, its bright colors loud and garish. It’s simultaneously charming and jarring, so different from everywhere Jon’s lived in the past, not to mention the fact that it’s nearly an hour’s walk from the cottage, which does not agree with Jon’s knees in the slightest. He makes a mental note to pick up a bicycle somewhere as he exits the grocery store, struggling slightly under the weight of the canvas bags. He hadn’t meant to get so much, really, but all the cans of food in the cottage were expired and the towels smelled of mildew and the cabinets were woefully bereft of cleaning supplies and he couldn’t resist picking up a small bag of cat food for the tabby and—
Well. It’ll be a long walk home.
The streets are busier than when Jon first arrived—which is to say, he can now count the number of people he sees on two hands rather than one—and it only takes him a moment to realize that most of the people are heading down the same cobblestone street toward the squat white structure that sits at the northern edge of town, half-embedded in the hillside. Aware of the frozen items in his bags—protected by shining silver insulation but still slowly thawing—Jon hesitates just a moment before following the meager crowd toward the building.
He’s just … a bit curious, that’s all. He’s seen all manner of temples—large and small, ornate and simple, shining golds and silvers and muted grays and browns—but never one in a settlement so small as this. He’d tried to do his research before coming here, look into what god resided in this town, but there hadn’t been any records of it. That isn’t unusual—towns this size hardly ever make it onto a map, much less into the theological texts that line academic shelves or even the most comprehensive of reference websites. But it means that Jon knows nothing about this village’s god.
They’re most likely a fertility god—protecting the harvest, ensuring that the land bears fruit, shielding the residents from disease and pestilence. But Jon doesn’t know. It’s a mystery, and it’s been too long since Jon’s faced an actual, honest-to-gods mystery.
It’s rather nice, actually.
The face of the building, once Jon gets close enough to see it clearly, is plain white stone that reflects the sunlight so brightly that Jon has to squint. The only ornamentation is carved vines that twist along the arch of the doorway and what must be the divine name of the god etched in faint gold above it. This close, Jon can hear the sound of windchimes coming from inside the building, a light and lilting song dictated by the breeze.
The inside is nearly as bright as the outside, well-lit by the myriad of windows embedded in the walls and the skylights affixed in the ceiling. Further in, the temple grows darker as it’s consumed more fully by the hill, but most people are gathered near the door where a small market appears to be in session. Vendors stand behind small wooden tables and beside piles of crates filled with bread and vegetables and round purple fruits and all manner of other items. Jon pauses beside the doorway, out of the way, and watches as an older man pays for a small brown bag of stone fruit. The man crosses the room to a small dais set near the back corner and places one of the fruits in the large golden bowl that sits atop it, then leaves with the rest of his items. Jon watches this occur several more times, trying not to seem like he’s staring even though he very much is staring, before he gives in to his curiosity and approaches a vendor surrounded by crates of bright red and orange peppers.
Before Jon even opens his mouth, the vendor takes one look at him and says, not unkindly, “You must be new here.”
For a moment, Jon worries that he’s done something wrong—broken some unspoken social rule. The vendor must see the anxiety on his face, however, because they add, “Town this small, everyone knows everyone, and I haven’t seen you around before.”
Ah. “Yes,” Jon admits, rubbing his thumb over the rough texture of the canvas bag handles he’s holding. He’s not particularly in the mood for making friends, and what he really wants to know is—“As such, I’m not familiar with this village’s god, o-or proper etiquette. Is this … have I walked into a service of some sort?”
The vendor looks blankly at Jon for a moment before their face splits into a smile and they laugh. “No, just the morning market. We host it in the temple because it keeps the produce fresher and so that it’s easier for people to make offerings if they like.” They give him an appraising look. “You’re from the city, then?”
“Oxford.”
The vendor hums and nods, like Jon’s just given them some great insight into his life. “Well, if you’re interested in an actual service, those are every other Saturday morning at sunrise. It’s the only time the temple proper is open to the public.” Their voice grows just a touch defensive. “We’re not as fancy as those big city temples, but we’re a proud people, and our god is just as deserving of respect as any other.”
Jon bristles, just a bit. “I never said they weren’t.”
The vendor gives Jon a long, scrutinizing look before sighing. “Suppose you didn’t. Do you want any peppers, or…?”
Jon buys some peppers, more out of politeness than anything. He has a moment of awkwardness, standing in the center of the market and unsure whether it’s appropriate or offensive for him to give an offering to a god that’s not his. He feels eyes on him, and they itch, and he quickly tucks the peppers into his bag and leaves the temple.
The walk back to the cottage is arduous, but it’s at least long enough that Jon’s skin stops feeling a bit too tight on him and he can relax. He’s never been good with change and new situations, and there’s been altogether too much of both lately. He just wants to go home and curl up on the tatty old couch with a book and forget the circumstances that have brought him here in the first place. (And the fact that the peppers he’s bought are perfect for his grandmother’s favorite curry recipe.)
And then, just a few turns before the cottage comes into view, he sees the man who pets the cows.
He becomes coined as such immediately in Jon’s brain because the first thing Jon registers is the fact that he’s leaning over the wooden fence, one hand scratching under the chin of a very large Highland cow and the other stroking gently behind its ear. His hair is remarkably similar in color to the cow’s, and as Jon watches, he pulls a clump of hay from seemingly nowhere and offers it to the cow, who takes it without complaint and begins chewing happily.
The second thing Jon registers, just as the man seems to notice his presence and turns to face him, is, unfortunately, annoyance.
“Oh, hello!” the man who pets the cows says. His voice is a bit higher than Jon was expecting, a bit softer, but also exactly how Jon was expecting. Which … doesn’t make any sense. He’s still petting the cow, now in long strokes from the tip of the cow’s nose to between its eyes. “I don’t believe we’ve met—are you new to the area?”
Jon is not in the mood for this again. He’s had a very long walk, and his knees are screaming for a break, and he just wants to be home. He tries to be polite, though—he really does try. “Yes—just down the road. So if you don’t mind, I’ll just be on my way.”
“Oh!” The man who pets the cows somehow brightens further. “That cottage on the hill? I noticed that it was occupied, and I was wondering who it was, but I didn’t want to bother them—well, bother you, I suppose.”
Has this man been watching him? Jon feels distinctly unnerved at the thought, seeing as he’s taken quite a bit of comfort in the knowledge that the cottage is secluded and quiet and not potentially under the observation of a tall stranger who smiles at Jon like he’s a longtime friend. His words are clipped when he says, “I suppose bothering me now is fine, then?”
Well. He hadn’t meant to be quite so acidic. Still, he stands his ground, arms aching from carrying his groceries, worried about the state of his frozen chicken and wanting nothing more than to be back at the cottage. The man who pets the cows blinks at him, smile slipping ever so slightly. “Uh. I—I suppose … not?” His eyes land on the grocery bags in Jon’s hands. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m—those look very heavy.”
Jon hums. “Yes, very much so. So if you don’t mind…?”
“Right, of course.” The man who pets the cows hesitates, then says, “I could … help you carry them? If you’d like?”
Jon can’t help it; he bristles. “No, thank you. I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? Really, it’d be no trouble—”
“Quite sure. I can take care of myself, thank you.”
The man opens his mouth, then shuts it again. He seems bewildered, like nobody’s ever told him no before. Self-important ass. “All … right, then. I’ll—I’ll see you around?”
Jon’s too tired for any more pleasantries, so he makes a noncommittal noise, brushes past the man who pets the cows, and drags his aching body the rest of the way back to the cottage.
There was no need to be so rude, a voice that sounds suspiciously like his grandmother chides as he puts the groceries away. You’ll never make any friends if you don’t put in the effort.
Jon sighs and sits down on the couch, putting his feet up with a sigh and rubbing surreptitiously at his aching knees. He’s not here to make friends. He’s here to take some time away from it all, to do research, to maybe finally finish that book he’s been whittling away at for the past few years, and that’s it.
He’ll only be here for six months anyway. He’d just have to leave them behind in the end. Best to avoid that possibility entirely.
Jon’s a few pages into his book when his mind snags on something, and he closes his eyes with a heavy sigh. Fuck. He forgot the bicycle.