12 Years Earlier

"Are you gonna sleep with us tonight?"

They were supposed to be asleep, but Floreca's eyes were open wide and eager. Karesema had shut her eyes tight upon her mother's appearance at the door, but Floreca's question had rendered her efforts futile. She opened her eyes to shoot Floreca a glare that the younger girl did not notice.

Their mother approached slowly and stopped down next to their bed. The girls rearranged themselves to make room for her, but she didn't join them. Instead she kneeled on the ground, bundling her dress underneath her to pad her knees, and rested her elbows on the bed, which sank under her weight.

"I'm sleeping with your father tonight, darlings," she said. It was too dark to see very well, but Karesema could hear the chastising smile in her mother's voice. "But first, I'm going to tell you a story and put you to sleep, so the giggling I've been hearing doesn't keep all of us up all night."

Karesema rolled onto her belly and planted her face in her pillow. "I was trying to be quiet, but Floreca kept laughing!" she huffed.

"Well, I don't imagine she'd be laughing if you hadn't been acting silly," said their mother.

"Franjo was laughing, too!" insisted Floreca.

"Shush!" Her voice was kind, but firm. "I'm not here to bicker with you two; I'm here to put you to bed. Your Paĉjo needs his sleep, and so do you two. Or do we need to work you harder, so you'll fall asleep sooner?"

"No!" Floreca cried out. "We already work hard!"

"Besides," Karesema said, hoping an appeal to logic would make up for her little sister's childish reaction, "being tired only makes us wanna be more silly. So if you work us harder, we'll just be sillier."

"Try explaining that to your father, when he's grumpy after a night of no sleep," she said, the pleasant kind of threat only a mother could pull off. A plea or a protest hovered on Floreca's lips, but their mother halted it with a stern look. After a pause, in which their mother looked from one girl to the other, observing that they were sufficiently humbled, she said, "Now! What story would you like to hear tonight, girls?"

"Aĉaĵego! Aĉaĵego!" All pretense of solemnity was lost as Floreca sat up to lean in towards their mother. "Please?"

"We hear the Aĉaĵego story all the time!" Karesema complained.

"Nu-uh! Last time it was 'Mardiino, the Salt Goddess!'"

"Floreca is right," said their mother, before Karesema could argue. "And Karesema picked it. So, it's only fair that Floreca gets to pick this time."

"She picks the same story every time!" Karesema whined.

"Well, she likes to hear the same story every time, just like you like to hear a different story every time," their mother mediated.

"Yeah!" Floreca echoed.

"But it's getting so boring!"

"Nu-uh!"

"Girls!" snapped their mother. "Knock it off. Or soon people will be telling a story about the time the Aĉaĵego came down from the mountain to get two naughty sisters who wouldn't stop bickering!"

Floreca squealed and rolled over and pressed herself against her older sister, as if trying to burrow under her to hide from the approaching Aĉaĵego, though she was still quite visible. Karesema simply pouted–she knew bickering wasn't a bad enough sin to get a person in trouble with the Aĉaĵego, and besides, she was older, so Floreca was supposed to listen to her. So if the Aĉaĵego did come down, it would come only for Floreca, and not her. But she sensed that her mother was just starting to get cranky, so she held her tongue.

When Floreca was quiet, their mother began to tell the story. Their mother was the best storyteller; even other children agreed. She could change her voice to sound like a man or a child or a goddess, laugh when she wasn't amused or cry when she wasn't sad, occasionally throw in a spontaneous rhyme or brief joke so that her stories would never be exactly the same when she told the same story more than once. She had grown up in the orphanage, where the children were educated by the nuns. Before she had met Karesema and Floreca's father, she had been training to become a nun. The nuns in the orphanage told stories to the children all day. So, their mother knew so many stories that Karesema and Floreca hadn't even heard them all yet.

And yet, Floreca always insisted on the same-old story of Aĉaĵego, every time she was given the choice.

It went like this: once upon a time, heaven and earth were so close that a person could reach heaven by climbing to the highest peak of the mountain and climbing on board a boat that sailed through the clouds. The dead could also sail the cloud-boat to the mountain and visit their loved ones on earth.

Almost everyone was happy this way, with one exception: Ĉieldiino, the goddess of death, who would often be left alone on the days one most longed for company. On Harvest Day, the living threw festivals in honor of Terdiino, thanking the earth goddess for the bountiful crops, and the dead would descend from the mountain and celebrate with their families. On the Day of the First Rain, the living stayed out in the streets and tried to catch lucky raindrops on their tongue, and the dead came down with barrels to help the living catch as much of the rain as they could, and when it was dark and the rain stopped, extended families gathered together to dry off in one home and they ate warm soup and told stories, and the dead stayed to visit until morning. And Ĉieldiino would watch from her home in heaven, feeling lonely and jealous of the attention given to the goddesses of earth and water.

One day a young man, a priest-in-training whose child-name and true-name have both been long since forgotten, went up to heaven on Harvest Day. He could have joined in the festivities, but he was a very loyal servant of Ĉieldiino, and on top of that, he thought she was the most beautiful goddess, with her sky-dress and cloud-hair and star-eyes, and he longed to have the opportunity to visit her while she was alone, so he could have more of her attention. Back in these days, the goddesses showed themselves to many different people, and not just the High Priest of their own temples–it took the actions of this young man to teach the goddesses the risks of revealing their beauty to ordinary men, who lacked the good judgment and self-discipline of a high priest.

The young man didn't expect to find Ĉieldiino crying by herself. He asked her why she was so troubled, and she sobbed, "I am so lonely! No one will stay with me!"

Without hesitating, he responded, "I will find souls to send to you." And he sailed the cloud-boat back to the mountain, and took his bow and arrow back to the town where the Harvest Day celebrations were taking place, and killed as many people as he could.

"But he didn't do it to be mean, though," Floreca interrupted at this part.

"No, he was not trying to be mean," said their mother. "But still, it was a rather cruel thing to do. No one has ever liked to die, not even back then. He didn't think about the consequences of his actions–it wasn't fair to the people he killed, it wasn't fair to Ĉieldiino, and it really angered Terdiino. He'd ruined her celebration, taken away lives that belonged to her, and as soon as she noticed what was happening she appeared before him and demanded–"

"'Explain thyself!'" Floreca chimed in, in the best angry-goddess voice she could muster.

Their mother smiled and continued the story: while the terrified man explained the situation, Terdiino planned her revenge. Terdiino is not a wrathful goddess; she always does the best she can to provide for the people of the earth, provided the people do their best, too. But she can be mischievous, and she thought both the man and Ĉieldiino needed to learn their lessons. Neither of them had the right to take away her subjects without her permission, especially during her harvest celebration. So when the man was done speaking, she smiled compassionately and said, "I understand. Please, take these souls I offer unto thee, and unto Ĉieldiino. They are my gift."

She led him to the prison, which in those days was very crowded–because there were no sacrifices, sinners lived in the prisons forever, and it was a huge burden on the temple to feed them and keep them all from escaping. Terdiino allowed the man to send all the prisoners to heaven, and he did.

When he finally went back up to visit Ĉieldiino, he found her more upset than before. The poor victims of the Harvest Day massacre made very poor company; they were angry that they had been killed on what should have been a joyful day, and they blamed Ĉieldiino for the deaths, as if she had told the man to kill them. And even worse, the prisoners had been running amok, taking advantage of their freedom to behave as raucously, even evilly, as possible. So many had died at once, that Ĉieldiino had not had the chance to sort through the souls as they arrived and send the evil ones away.

The man felt horrible about what he'd done, and he spent the rest of the day helping Ĉieldiino catch the evil souls. After he caught them, Ĉieldiino took them and chained them deep down at the bottom of the ocean, beyond the domain of the saltwater goddess Mardiino. When all the evil souls were gone, Ĉieldiino almost forgave the man for his mistakes. But then he explained that it was Terdiino who had told him to send Ĉieldiino the souls.

"It is she whom thou servest!" she cried out. "I thought thou wast the one man who wouldst serve me, and wouldst be loyal to me, when all the others forsook me to go unto her! But thou servest her, and helpedst her when she mocked me!" She was so angry she refused to hear an explanation, and chased him out of heaven.

Terdiino was waiting for the man at the bottom of the mountain, eager to see how her mischief had played out. She laughed at the man's disappointment, but said "Worry thee not! I have seen thy loyalty. Thou mayst serve me, and be my High Priest – nay, even my angel."

The offer was a great honor–the highest honor to which any man or woman can aspire. It's very, very rare that a goddess accepts a servant as an angel–one who will never know death, nor anything but complete happiness in eternal service to a goddess, as a bridge between the mortal and immortal realms. But the man hesitated. "I... know not..." he began.

"Thou knowest not?" repeated Terdiino. No one had ever considered turning her down before. "Thinkest thyself above a goddess? No–I understand. Thou lovest Ĉieldiino, dost thou not? But not as a loyal servant loveth his master–no, thou lovest her as a man loveth his wife!" The look of shame on the man's face was all the truth Terdiino needed to confirm this was true, and she went on mocking him. He didn't dare refute her.

"I know I am wrong," he finally said. "I will be your angel." Resigned to his fate, he bowed before the goddess to whom he was now dedicated.

"I knew thou woudst," said Terdiino. "But before thou canst be my servant, thou must understand–an angel can never love a goddess as a man loveth his wife. For thou must serve me, and bow before me. If thou hadst a wife, she would serve thee, and bow before thee. Thou must never forget thy role."

"I will not," he swore.

"I will ensure thou wilt not," said Terdiino. And she placed her hands on the man's head, and there he was transformed from the man he had been into a hideous creature, one that no woman would ever love. His old name was taken from him, and he was given a name that reflected his new role, and his new appearance. Aĉaĵego.

"But he still loved Ĉieldiino," Floreca chimed in. "It's Terdiino who tells him to send the prisoners to heaven, but he doesn't want to send Ĉieldiino, any more evil souls, so first he carries each sinner to the mountain to bring them to repentance, and then he sends the souls to heaven."

"Say it, not he," said their mother. "It's not a man anymore, remember? But yes, you're right. Terdiino allows it that little bit of kindness to Ĉieldiino. Terdiino and Ĉieldiino never forgave each other after that, and in the end, Ĉieldiino moved heaven so far into the sky that Terdiino could never reach her, and the living were eternally separated from the dead. But Terdiino does allow Aĉaĵego to purify the sinners, yes. That's a kindness to the sacrifices as well, so that, if their repentance is sincere, they can stay in heaven with Ĉieldiino and their loved ones instead of being chained to the bottom of the sea. Not everyone is given such a chance before they die, so though sacrifice may seem cruel, we're really giving those people a better chance at happiness than they ever would have had otherwise."

"We don't do it to be mean," Floreca paraphrased.

"So, girls," their mother said, "can either of you tell me the most important lesson we can learn from this story?"

"Be nice to everyone!" Floreca blurted out eagerly. That was Floreca's answer whenever their mother asked that question, no matter what the story was.

"That's one of them," said their mother. "Can you think of one that's even better?"

"Obey the goddesses, obey the priests, obey Paĉjo..." said Karesema, her own go-to answers. Most morals-of-the-story came down to obeying somebody.

"Hm, that's a good one, too," said their mother. "But do you want to know the most important lesson of all?" A pause. Finally she said, with the slightest hint of a chuckle in her voice, "Know your role. That means, when you grow up and get married, don't try to give your husband orders. If he obeys you, Terdiino just might turn him into a great big ugly creature."

Karesema knew she shouldn't say anything. But the words popped into her head, and the timing was perfect, and she couldn't resist. "Well," she said, "Paĉjo must've obeyed you before, 'cause he's already a big, ugly creature!"

Floreca broke into hysterical laughter, and Karesema could not resist grinning proudly at her own joke. "Karesema!" her mother scolded. But it was futile to say anything more; Floreca was laughing so loud. "Floreca! Both of you know better!"

Floreca tried to quiet down when she was scolded by name, but that proved difficult; she put her hands over her mouth and clamped it shut, but a snicker would escape through her nose, and for a minute she lay face-down on the bed, trembling with suppressed hysteria. Karesema, too, found it a bit difficult to put on a solemn face, but she at least managed to avoid laughing out loud. Their mother waited until they were both calm, kissed both of them good-night, and told them to get some sleep. But when their mother finally got up to go join their father, closing the door behind her, Floreca pulled the blanket over both their heads and whispered, "Paĉjo is an ugly creature!" And they were up giggling together for at least another hour.