Chapter Text
At her next visit, the Seer doesn’t mention posters or Sylphs. You don’t bring it up. Why bother? She must already know. She has to know. She knows when you think about it. You’re thinking about it. Stop thinking about it!
“John,” she says, snapping you out of your distraction and back to your lesson. "Look at the board."
You sigh and roll your eyes. "What, am I in checkmate again?” you drawl sarcastically. And then, you stop, mouth open. Because you're not in checkmate.
She's in checkmate.
You don't understand. How is this possible? You hadn't even been thinking about it. “No way,” you say.
The Seer is all grins and teeth. “Yes, way. It's not that hard, is it, to beat a blind woman at chess?"
"But, you're not..."
There is no fanfare. She simply resets the board, into a new setup. “Again.”
This time, you lose again, as you try to somehow do what you did before without fully remembering what it was that you did. As she wins, she flicks the white king off the board like she would one of her ever-present coins. Rude. You sigh, and get ready to reset the board.
“John. It’s your move.”
You blink at her. “You took my king.”
She smiles. “The white king. When the white king dies, the game doesn’t end. It begins.”
And she takes a set of blue pieces out of that nowhere space where she keeps everything. They don’t look like any chess pieces you’ve ever seen, and she sets them up in an unfamiliar configuration.
“John. Move.”
Your new pieces move strangely. They teleport, they revive, they control the opponent’s pieces. You are not even sure you’re controlling them completely. “What is this?”
The Seer just keeps grinning. “Nyrblish 5th dimensional psion-chess. Much more fun than the human version.”
The board changes. It becomes three dimensional, spins into odd shapes, tesseracts, and you can’t quite make sense of what’s happening. “I don’t think I can play this.”
“Try.”
You try, but the board looks like something Escher would sketch in his spare time. Your head hurts, looking at it. “I can’t.”
“Do it anyway.”
“Look, Lady Justice, maybe you can do this kind of thing, but I’m only—I’m a kid! I’m a human, I can’t play chess in five dimensions!”
“Are you sure, John Egbert?”
“Yes, I’m sure I can’t—”
“Are you sure that you’re human?”
You stop at that. Your mouth goes dry.
“Well… well yeah, I—”
“You might want to think, John, about what is holding you back.” And the Seer packs up her chess, all five dimensions of it. And she leaves.
Your dad ruins everything.
Why did he have to clean your room? Make your bed? You can do that yourself, you’re fourteen for godssakes!
When you return home from coding summer camp, your poster, your poster signed by the goddess of Space, is lying on the kitchen counter, open for the whole world to see. There is a post-it note attached.
Son,
When I get home, we will Talk.
Shit shit SHIT. He found the poster. He found the poster
You are so dead. Should you destroy the evidence? No, it’s too late for that.
Maybe you should run away. No, that’s stupid, where would you go? Anna’s? The Church? That idea is stupid, so stupid, squawking-like-an-imbecile-and-shitting-on-your-desk-level stupid, and you are not going to do that.
You pace back and forth, trying to think what you are going to say. You don’t know what to do or who to confide in.
Anna can’t help you. The Seer probably won’t, since even though YOU didn’t write the name or ever speak it aloud, you’re pretty sure keeping the autograph of another god in the house breaks her rules.
But… she never got mad about it. And she must have known, right?
You decide to risk it. You sit on the floor in a meditative position, take a deep breath, and say aloud: “…Hey, Seer of Mind? I know I don’t usually ask you for anything, but… my dad found a poster with the name of the S— the Godmother on it. Do you have any advice?”
You wait for a while. Nothing. The house is empty and silent.
Then, your computer, from upstairs, makes the faint beep can only mean you’re being IM’d.
Anna?
You go upstairs and look at the screen. The chum-handle is unfamiliar.
-- gallowsCalibrator [GC] began pestering ghostyTrickster [GT] at 17:43 --
GC: JOHN, YOU H4V3 TO T4K3 R3SPONS1B1L1TY FOR YOUR OWN 4CT1ONS.
GC: TRY TO T4K3 TH1S 4S 4NOTH3R L3SSON.
GC: JUST L1K3 4LL TH3 OTH3RS.
GT: wait
GT: are you the seer?
GT: you use pesterchum?
GT: weird
GC: 1 US3 WH4T3V3R 1 N33D TO US3
GC: 1T’S T1M3 TO ST4ND UP FOR YOURS3LF, JOHN.
GC: YOUR F4TH3R 1S HOM3.
GC: DO YOU HAV3 WH4T IT T4K3S TO F4C3 H1M?
You can’t believe this. You can hear your dad’s car pull into the driveway.
This is what, another test for you to fail? Another opportunity to get beaten up? Did she ignore the poster just so that your dad would find it later?
Another lesson, just like all the others. Sure, another lesson in pain and bullshit.
You are sick of this. You are so, so sick of this.
You hear the door downstairs open, then close. You don’t want to do this, so you delay the inevitable by straightening your bookshelf and re-sorting your DVD collection.
It’s six-thirty by the time you head downstairs, every step feeling like you’re ascending a gallows.
Gods, you really don’t want to do this.
Your dad is sitting at the table, next to the incriminating poster, reading a newspaper and smoking his pipe. You know it has to be bad, when he’s smoking.
“Son,” he says, not looking up from the paper. “Have a seat.”
You sit, and he slowly, methodically folds up the newspaper, still puffing on the pipe. The sitting and waiting is like torture. Like that Chinese torture thing where they drip water on your head. You stare fixedly at your knees.
“Son,” he says again. “I know it can be hard, to be different from the other kids. And it can feel like no one understands.”
That was not what you expected your dad to say. You expected him to berate you about the poster.
“I know that there are some kids who will pick out anything that makes a person different from the crowd,” your dad continues. “And atheism makes you very different.” He sighs. “I wish you had come to me about this.”
You realize that your dad is giving you a very convenient excuse.
Your dad leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. “I do not want you to be pressured into being something that you're not.”
You decide to take the proffered ‘out.’
“Oh,” you grunt. “Okay. Sure.”
Your dad taps the poster with his index finger. “Son,” he says, but you interrupt him.
“I didn’t ask for the poster, Dad! It was a gift. I didn’t ask for it.”
Your dad smiles thinly. “At least now I’m getting more out of you than monosyllables.”
You lapse back into a sullen silence.
“It’s not the poster, John. It’s the letter that was with it.”
You blanch. Shit. You didn’t even think of that.
“It seems to be implying that you’ve gone to church, and that you are grounded. Which is not, currently, the case.”
You try to breathe deeply. Calm your thoughts, and lie through your buck teeth.
“I didn't go to church, but she wanted me to go to church... I mean, I might have gone once or something, but I had to make an excuse not to. I had to not go, so I said I was grounded.” You try to look your dad in the eye as you speak.
“Son, you just gave me two different stories about church in as many seconds.”
Wow, you’re just digging this hole deeper for yourself, aren’t you?
Your dad shrugs. “She sounds like a good friend. If she really is, then she will understand that you simply don't worship any gods, and it won't matter.” There is a pause, during which time you say nothing. “You should tell her the truth. If she cares, then I don't think that she is really such a good friend.”
You try to think of a good excuse, before you respond. “She is a good friend, Dad. I did not ask for the poster. She... she went to this event and I guess she thought it would be a nice thing to do, that's all.”
“Be that as it may. I think that you should tell her, but that is your decision to make.” Your dad takes a long drag on his pipe. “But there is something else we need to talk about. They did not stop beating you up, did they? The bullies from school?”
“No,” you mumble. “School was fine.”
“Your old man isn't blind, Son. I know what a bruise looks like.”
You sink into your chair. “I can handle it.”
Your dad fixes you with a very Stern Fatherly Look, and you sink down even lower, trying to disappear.
“How many months has it been? I should have spoken to you sooner.” He reaches across the table to put a Solid Patriarchal Hand on your shoulder. “Son, it is okay to admit that you need help. Real men know when the situation is too big to handle. It is not a sign of weakness. Do you understand me?”
Your dad still has no clue. But you don’t want him to think that you’re being beaten up, when you’re not, not really. You suddenly have an idea.
“It’s not like that,” you say, shaking your head. “It’s not bullying. It’s like, you know Fight Club? It's kind of like that. Only without the anti-government conspiracy and the multiple personality stuff. And I don't have a Brad Pitt. I'm just learning how to defend myself and stuff. I am getting tougher! It's not too big to handle. I am fine. I don't need help.”
Your dad gives you a Stern Fatherly Look, and you realize that he doesn’t buy it.
“Son, we are not leaving this table until you tell me the truth. I have already left this alone for too long.”
The truth? Well… what if you tell a partial truth? "Okay so there's this... girl. And she is really religious, and she thinks that she will help me find the gods if she teaches me how to fight and stuff. Martial arts."
Your dad sighs. “Do not tell me that my son thinks that he has to be beaten up to catch a girl's eye.”
What? Does he think you feel that way about the Seer? “No,” you state emphatically. “I don’t like, like her! And I do not think she likes me, either. At all, really.”
Your dad raises an eyebrow. “Well, at least I understand why you went to church, now.” Your dad sighs. “I don’t even want to know which gods this girl favors. If my son likes a girl that beats him up and calls it devotion, then... well, I may have to live with it. But you, Son, should not have to pretend that you are something that you’re not.”
“What? No, I’m not talking about Anna! Two different people.” This whole conversation is a mess. “And anyway, I don’t like them! I mean, I like Anna, but as a friend!”
“I see,” says your dad. “There is this one girl that you like enough to go to church for, and then there is this other, completely different, girl who you are willing to get beaten up by.”
“Yes, that is what is happening!” You are getting angry, now.
Your dad sighs and closes his eyes. “I am unsure whether to be proud or annoyed that my son is such a poor liar.” He leans forward, and takes another puff on his pipe. “You need to come clean with this girl, whether there is one of her or two. You are an atheist. If they really care about you then they will accept that.”
You count back the weeks. It’s been exactly four months and one week and two days since you first spoke to the Seer. Is your dad going to find out? You don’t want him to find out. You want deeply to prove that the Seer can be wrong, that you’re not as pathetically bad at keeping secrets as she thinks.
But it's been exactly 4 months, one week, two days. And, you realize that you have a choice. The Seer could be right… but it’s in your control.
You could say, “Yes, okay Dad.” And that would be that, for now. But it would just delay the inevitable: your dad would find out about the Seer tomorrow.
Or… you could make sure the Seer was wrong, for once.
You squeeze your eyes shut tight, and say, very quietly, “I’m not.”
Your dad pauses mid-puff. “Excuse me?”
You have to be brave. You have to do this. You twist your fingers into the fabric of your shirt, and say more clearly; “I’m not an atheist.”
Your dad takes his pipe out of his mouth, and lays it on the table. He looks grave. “You do not know what the gods are like, John. I am trying to protect you. Religion is dangerous, and you should stay away from it. I do not want to see you get hurt.”
This isn’t making any sense. “But Dad, it's not like pretending that the gods are not important makes them not exist. If they're dangerous, shouldn't we pay them respect? I mean, not make them mad, but just... you know, be normal about it? I mean, a lot of people are religious, Dad! Like, everyone! The only atheist I know is you!”
Very suddenly, your dad slams his fist into the table, making you jump. “We are not like other people!” Then, he abruptly slumps, and seems to try and compose himself. “I am sorry. I am not angry with you, John. I am scared.”
That takes you by surprise. You did not expect him to say that. “Dad? What are you talking about?”
Your dad looks haunted. “John, when you were an infant…” He swallows. “When you were an infant, I received a visit from the Flaming-Eyed God.”
And your dad tells you. About the warning, the threat, the gods made on your life. About how they told him not to pray, just like the Seer told you.
“John, the Mage told me that the other gods would do anything to keep you from doing… whatever it was they did not want to see happen. Do you understand what ‘anything’ means?”
You don’t want to hear this. “Yeah, but... I mean, what if some of the gods are protecting me from the others? Like the Flaming-Eyed God, and the Calibrator of the Gallows? I mean, I... I didn't know about any of this. But if I have this destiny or whatever, shouldn't I do what I can to like, fulfill it?”
“John.” Your dad sounds incredulous. “We are talking about the living gods. If they wanted to kill you, you would be dead before you could blink.”
You roll your eyes, but he continues. “The gods don’t mind atheists. We don’t draw their attention. They only hear you when—John, if you have been praying…”
You don’t say anything, but you know your guilt is written all over your face. You stare at the table, but can feel your dad’s eyes boring into you.
“John,” he says. “What have you said while you were praying?” You look up at your dad. He looks pained, like someone just stomped on his foot.
“Not much,” you say. “I usually couldn’t think of anything to pray about, really…”
He sighs. “Thank goodness.”
“But Dad…” Too late to go back now. “You’re wrong, kind of. About gods and atheists.”
“What do you mean?”
You interlock your fingers and look back at the table. “The gods do pay attention to atheists.”
You see your dad’s eyes widen. “John, have they spoken to you?”
Your stupid dad. You don’t look at him. “Yeah.” And then, because that doesn’t feel like enough: “I’m sorry. She told me not to tell you.”
“She…” Your dad’s voice is hollow, his expression fearful. You hate it. You hate seeing your dad looking so frightened.
“Lady Justice,” you clarify. “She said she’d be training me for some kind of destiny, or something.”
Your dad closes his eyes, and rests his forehead in one of his hands. When he speaks, his voice is breaking. You hate the sound of it. “I am sorry, John. I am so sorry. I should have told you sooner.”
Several long moments pass in silence. This is so uncomfortable. That the Seer’s prophecy is off by one day is a cold comfort. “Dad…”
Then, your dad looks up, and gets to his feet. There is something steely in his expression, something that wasn’t there before. “Son. Pack your things. We’re leaving.”
“What?”
“No questions, John.” His tone books no room for disobedience. “Do it.”
You don’t want to do this; this is crazy! But you've never seen your dad talk like that before. It’s kind of scary.
So, you get up, and pack your things. You don’t know how much to pack, but you figure a few days’ worth of clothes is probably fine. By the time you finish and come back downstairs, your dad has already packed his own possessions into the car.
“How long will we be gone for?” you ask.
“I don’t know,” he answers, and you worry a little that you didn’t pack enough.
Before you both drive off, you check the pesterlogs on your desktop. You don’t have any new ones from the Seer, but you do leave one for Anna:
GT: i’m leaving town for a few days
GT: so i will be afk
GT: but i will be online again soon.
GT: i have a lot to tell you.
And who knows? Now that the proverbial cat is out of its bag, maybe you can even tell her the truth.