A Shrine to an Unknown God

REFUGE

WE FIND REFUGE on the steps to the temple across the road. It is far enough away from the ritual that we cannot smell the smoke or hear the celebrations. Also, it is out of the sun, which is a definite plus.

Ezra lays flat on his back on the shaded marble steps. "Jesus Christ."

"Are you okay?" I press my hand against his forehead, checking for a fever. "Do you need something? I can run home and get some medicinal—"

"No. I'm fine. I just need to, like... chill. That was—the most intense religious ceremony I have ever witnessed. And I went to Catholic school. In Texas."

"Is there something wrong with that?"

"Catholicism or Texas?"

I hook my ankles one over the other. "The ceremony."

"Oh—oh!" He shifts, settling his shoulders against the ground. "No, it was just... overwhelming. Way out of my comfort zone. I mean, obviously I was raised Catholic, so—I'm an atheist but I feel hella guilty about it. So all this religion stuff is no bueno."

This Catholicism he talks about must be some sort of heretic religion. One that he grew up practicing but disregarded as he came to maturity. But what no bueno means, I have no idea.

"The gods are real," I tell him. "Our gods are real. So are most others."

He closes his eyes. "Sure. If you think so. I'm not here to—"

"I should know," I insist. "I'm the daughter of one."

He abruptly sits up, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "Antigone..."

"I can prove it to you."

"That's really not necessary."

I take my sword out of its sheath and offer it to him. "Go on. Stab me. I can heal myself."

"What the fuck is this place?" he scoots away from me, looking at my sword in abject horror. "That's a whole-ass sword. Is this some kind of cult? Am I high right now?"

"Is this all really that strange to you?"

"It's like... nothing I have ever experienced before." He snaps his fingers. "I got it. I'm dead. Am I dead?"

I reel my arm back and slap him.

"OW!" His head snaps sideways. He presses his hand against the mark my own left and lets out a series of what I can only assume are expletives in his mother tongue. Then, in Greek: "Fuck! What the fuck was that for?"

"If you were dead," I explain, "that would not have hurt."

"Well, it hurt like a motherfucker." He rubs his cheek. "Was that just an excuse to slap me?"

"Maybe a little bit."

He shakes his head at me and lays back down. "How do I get out of here?"

"Like, back to the mainland?"

"Is this an island? Where am I right now?"

"Of course it is an island."

"So how do I get back to the mainland?"

"A boat? But nobody ever leaves."

"I'm not staying here," he tells me, as if he didn't even listen to what I just said. "Do you think you could help me?"

"Ezra, nobody leaves this island," I repeat. "I'm not going to. But I will help you the best that I can. I can show you to the docks, and teach you how to man a boat."