No divine scent preceded it, and no herb or blossom sprang up in its wake; the god simply plodded across the park, trailed by its probation officer. Their unvarying route had been easily clocked by the kids at the nearby junior high, who began to wait in the trees to film and mock it. Gabe, on her lunchtime runs, occasionally stopped to watch too; it was hard not to.
Today, though, the kids were flinging pebbles at the god and shining laser pointers into it, making it flinch and waver. “Hey!” Gabe yelled, brandishing her own phone. “Smile!”
They fled in an adolescent combination of fear and disdain. Gabe awkwardly approached the shivering god. “I’d like to apologize on behalf of our town,” she said. “We’re not all…”
They do not respect me, the god said; she winced as the voice resonated in her jawbones and ribs. She had no rebuttal: Some feared the god, others were indifferent, but no one worshiped it.
The officer — a thin man whose unfamiliar maroon uniform boasted strange badges — shrugged. “Thanks,” he said. “I’m not allowed to intervene. My contract.”
We go on, said the god. This is not the way to regain what is lost.
Gabe shuffled aside to let it pass: a towering orb of blue-gray mist, broken glass, claws, feathers, scales, eyes, like a traveling hurricane in an exotic birds exhibit.
Weightless, it still seemed to lumber. Perhaps it wasn’t suffering, but how could you tell? It was struggling — even clutching the plastic grabber in one insubstantial extrusion, it needed several tries to pick up each pop can, chip bag, broken flipflop. Maybe it didn’t like the gravity here, Gabe thought. Or friction or the composition of the atmosphere — or the mortal discomfort of the passage of time.
Back home she hunted down the little brochure city council had mailed: This is to inform you that [unreadable symbols], deity of [more unreadable symbols] will be performing community service in… Her first question had been, But what was its crime?