This year, I am eligible for the Hugo Award in the category of Best Short Story, for my story “Orzhu”. It was originally published last year in 99 Fleeting Fantasies, an anthology of flash fiction edited by Jennifer Brozek and published by Pulse Publishing. The anthology also includes stories by some of the luminaries of the field – Seanan McGuire, Charles Stross, and many others.
I’ve republished it here on Pyrlogos, and I’d be honored if you’d consider it if you’re nominating for the Hugos this year.
Or just drop a comment and let me know what you think! (It may take the comment a little while to appear; WordPress spam is rampant as always and so I have everything set to manual moderation at the moment…)
This was the first short story I ever had professionally published. I’m still really proud of it.
“Orzhu” by Chris Battey
Originally published in 99 Fleeting Fantasies, ed. Jennifer Brozek, from Pulse Publishing (2024).
My brother and I were eight years old when we built our first god.
Looking back, it was a sad shambles of an idol. Driftwood with pseudo-mystical symbols gouged into it, held together with nails and wire stolen from Mom’s workshop, adorned with stones and beach glass and the carapace of a weeks-dead crab. It was a far cry from even the poorest homes’ hearth gods, let alone the township gods Dad and his acolytes spent weeks crafting and blessing.
Curt and I didn’t see its flaws then. We saw Orzhu, in all Their glory, Their Name blossoming from our lips as our prayers began. Before that moment, I don’t know if we really believed in Them—but we wanted, and I guess that was enough like belief to awaken Them, enough for Them to accept our devotions by announcing Their Name through our voices.
Being a very small god, Orzhu’s blessings were also minor, but we venerated them regardless. The Blessing of Sixes gave me an improbable victory in a game of walking-stones, winning back my pocketknife from our friend Billie. She hurled the dice into the stream, convinced I’d cheated, but overnight Orzhu touched her heart, and the next day she was a believer too. They rewarded Billie’s faith the next week with the Miracle of Balm, clearing her itchweed rash in mere minutes. After Curt fumbled Nana’s telescope off the cliff while sail-spotting, Orzhu granted us the Spyglass Blessing, washing it back ashore intact. We dutifully scratched these acts into the rock beneath Orzhu’s shrine, praising Their Name and Their grace.
Orzhu was too small a god to save Curt, though.
Maybe it was my fault. Maybe, when Curt fell from the tree, if I had run to Their shrine instead of running for our parents, They would have knit his spine back together. Maybe it shouldn’t have taken the healer hoping aloud for a miracle for me to remember Orzhu—Who had blessed Their faithful thrice before. Maybe I should have found a sacrifice to offer instead of approaching Them with heavy heart and empty hands.
Or maybe Orzhu knew Curt had lost the faith. When he finally awoke, learning he had lost the use of his legs and right arm, Curt first refused to listen, then raged, then cried himself breathless. When we had a moment alone, I confided to Curt that I had prayed to Orzhu, and maybe an offering would help.
Instead, he cursed Their Name, loud enough for Dad to hear. I knew then that Orzhu’s grace would never again reach my brother.
We’d never been sure of how Dad would react to Orzhu, so we’d kept our worship secret, believing there would be no harm as long as we also continued our devotions to the gods of household and village and duchy. Maybe that was where we’d gone wrong. Maybe our faith in our new-built god should have been open and proud. Or maybe we’d offended the larger, stronger gods somehow. Maybe we’d neglected some ritual to unite Orzhu with the rest of our pantheon.
Maybe Curt had been cast down for our impiety.
When I tearfully raised these questions to Dad, standing before Orzhu’s shrine, Dad just sat down and pulled me into his lap. “This isn’t your fault, kiddo,” he murmured into my hair, and held me as I sobbed all my grief out.
While I’d caught my breath I realized that it’d been ages since I’d curled up on Dad’s lap. I didn’t really fit anymore. I shifted to his side and tucked myself under his arm, pleased to find that there was still a comfortable place for me here.
We contemplated the shrine in silence.
Then Dad asked, “Orzhu, eh?” I tensed, still half-expecting some punishment. “I haven’t heard that name before.”
“Neither had we,” I said hesitantly. “Until they spoke it with our voices. Curt and me both.”
“Really.” Dad still spoke softly, but I heard a note of pride. “I didn’t awaken my first god until I was a junior acolyte. It barely lasted a day. How long, ah…?”
He seemed unsure how to ask, and I realized I’d already begun thinking of Orzhu in the past tense, their divinity subsumed back into the aether. “A couple weeks. Is that… normal? For them to just… fade?”
I felt him nod. “Small gods rarely last long. Even township gods need rebuilding every few decades. It’s why I carve a new idol for Yerzhan every year.” Our household god. “Usually each new god assumes Their predecessor’s Name. We encourage it by crafting each successive idol similarly, reusing some of the previous idol’s material, and generally treating Them like one long-lived god.”
“Huh.”
“Well, look at me spilling the mysteries,” he chuckled. “Guess I’d better start your training. Curt, too, if he’s interested. You two’ve always made a great team.”
At Curt’s name, I teared up again. “But he’s… can he?”
Dad nodded. “It’ll be hard, but you can do a lot with one working hand plus a strong heart and a sharp mind. I’ve certainly seen priests with less. And he’s got you.” He pulled me to my feet. “It’s about time to rebuild Yerzhan anyway. First, we break down the old idol and select some pieces for the new one. Do you want…?” He gestured.
I gently lifted the idol of my dead god.
The new idol, carved and polished, glowed under the votives’ light. Curt sat in the wheeled chair Mom had built, and Dad helped him lean forward and light a candle with his good hand. I held his other hand, warm but limp. Mom held mine and Dad’s hands to complete the circle, and we began to pray.
“Bless our house and our family, oh Yerzhu, god of our hearth—”
Our eyes widened as the almost-familiar name spilled from all our lips, and for a moment, I felt Curt’s fingers squeeze mine.