Out in the villages and the city slums, the people are hungry. They are burning under the bright heat of the suns. There is never enough of anything to go around. But still, they make everything they have go around. They stretch their resources to the very thinnest brink. And they make do. They always make do. They have to make do. It is all they have. 

They grieve their loved ones and they grieve themselves and they grieve their children who they far too often have to send far away to be raised by uncaring hands. Grief sits heavy within them, claws at their insides, always. 

And the work is hard, it is backbreaking, it is unending. As work always is for my people. Some are luckier than others and get to work in the fields, closer to the earth, closer to nature. Closer to me, though I hold all my children equally close, as close as I can. Others work in mines and factories and warehouses and construction sites and streets and packaging plants and refineries. I grieve them all the more, as they are trapped in screaming, artificial worlds that roar on over them, consuming them. 

The people live in tiny huts, often made of clay, made of concrete though if they live in the city. The people all crowd together on sparse floors, trading stories and tragedies and hopes. And they eat plain white rice and barely anything else. They know that it's not enough. Especially with all the energy they have to expend during their days. But they know that it is all that they have, and they make do. 

Meanwhile the doctor lives in his large, sprawling house. His wife and daughter have closets full of new, bright, expensive clothes. He has fine, large furnitures and soft, down-feather beds. He has fine, flavourful foods that he can eat whenever he feels like it. And a large television to watch. He had fine suits and gold watches. He has a library filled with books. And he sends his children to all the best schools. 

The doctor has two children. A son and a daughter. He calls them exceptionally bright. He calls them smart, talented, the best of the best. He calls them his sweethearts, his dear ones. His bright little birds. He dotes on them and always gives them the best of everything. And he tells them stories of his youth and all the great things that he has done. He tells them that surely they will grow up to be as great as him, if not even greater. He says that he could not have asked for better children. 

None of this, does he say to the little girl. And the little girl always assumes that she isn't bright like them. She isn't smart like them. She isn't kind like them. She isn't good like them. The girl compares herself to the doctor's children and she finds herself sorely lacking. She finds herself nothing in comparison to their greatness. She finds herself without any shining beacon in the storm. She thinks that she must be some kind of mute, dumb beast, not a human. 

I cry for her. More than I cry for the people in the villages. More than I cry for the people in the city's slums. I cry for her more than I thought myself capable of crying at all. More than I ever thought anyone capable of crying. 

The doctor's daughter is thirteen years old. She likes to draw. She makes beautiful pictures on her very many pieces of pristine, clean papers, with her very many sharpened, long pencils. She colours her pictures in with her set of one hundred pencil crayons. She spends many a long night at her desk working on her creations, while the little girl works. Her parents praise her for her creativity and her artistry and her skill.

The little girl looks at all the daughter's drawings, when she is sorting the daughter's desk. And she feels very sad. She wants to pick up a pencil and draw. But she never gets the chance. She thinks that her own drawings would undoubtedly be ugly, pathetic things. She thinks that she is undoubtedly not as good as the daughter. 

The son of the doctor is seventeen years old. He is an arrogant, egotistical young thing. But his arrogance and his ego are very subtle, hidden in the way he holds his head up, in the way his cold eyes and handsome-ugly mouth smiles. You would not notice it unless you really looked. 

He likes to do math. He enters many math competitions, and wins them all. His parents preen and coo at all his accomplishments. They tell him that he is unique. He is one in a million. He is destined for great things. All he has to do is follow his amazing mind to where it leads him to. The doctor's son believes all of this, and believes that he is truly special. 

The little girl doesn't get sent to school. She wants to go to school. So badly, with a deep ache inside herself, with a thundering earthquake down in her very soul, she wants to go. But the family will not let her. They say she had so much work to do. They say she has to be at home, guarding the house against intruders. As if any intruder would care about a small, skinny seven-year-old girl. 

The girl feels a great rising hollowness at not being able to go to school. An aching hollowness that leaves her feeling dark and stale and full of acid. It burns her to her very core, the way that they keep her from going to school. It burns her in a way that leaves her not knowing how she will possibly be able to go on. 

She feels as if of course she is not as smart as them, as the doctor's children. She feels as if of course she cannot do what they did. She cannot think the way they think. She cannot possibly be compared to all of their knowledge and their wisdom and their skill. 

This, of course, is both true and untrue. For she is not as smart as them. She is truly smarter. It is only that her intelligence has never had time to shine. And truly, she does not know what they know. But what the girl knows is far more important. And the way that the girl is capable of thinking, that way is far better than the way that the doctor's children think. 

But all of this, she does not know. All of this, I long to tell her. But I have to wait. I have to wait until the time is right. 

So I bide my time until finally the day comes when I can strike. 

The doctor and his family are out at a mountain retreat, surrounded by false forests planted by workers whose names they do not know, tended to by the tourism department. They are in a spiritual oasis. Or, what is left of a spiritual oasis. And they are making a pilgrimage. 

You see, the doctor and his family think they worship me. They think that they worship me but it is truly the twisted and corrupted god Markeera who they worship. Still, the history of their lands is one in which a twisted and corrupted version of my religion became the dominant religion. And so they say my name as they bend down in prayer. Even as their prayers for more wealth and more land and more power and more status and more glory twist and writhe their way to Markeera's ears. Even as they pray to my rival, they say my name. 

And them saying my name, you see, means a lot. Because whoever they truly worship or not, I have power here. I have power with them. And now, since my own powers have strengthened, I am able to use what powers I have with the doctor and his family. 

The retreat they are in used to be an endless expanse of rolling fields and wild-growing grasses and shrubs. It used to be a dry plain on a mountain where the earth and the sky both stretched in every direction around you endlessly. It used to be beautiful, wild, free, before some people with too much power thought it would look better as a forest and sent their watering trucks to wet the land every day. 

This land used to be accessible to everyone. Anyone who wished could travel up here, could make a pilgrimage up here. The young and strong would sometimes have to carry the old. But working together, all could enjoy. All could revel. 

Before the people with power walled it up and put barbed wire at the top of their great, large fences. They made checkpoints at gates and meticulously verified the identities of anyone entering the sacred land. They charged exorbitant fees for entry. Fees that most of my people could never afford. 

Once upon a time this space was a sacred ground to me. It was the centre of my worship. It was where all people of the lands would make a pilgrimage to. It was the site at which my great prophet, Essenion, fell to their death many centuries ago. The site at which they transformed into the plains themselves, and breathed with new life. 

There is no power left at this place now. No spirituality. No sacredness. The rich and powerful, those who rule the lands, they have leached every bit of holiness from it, draining it dry as they showered it wet. Drinking it to death like a vampire. There is nothing left of Essenion's life force, they died their second death. There is nothing left that there once was. 

But there was once sacredness here. It was once the site of my power. And that means something. It means I still have something here. 

The doctor and his family are with a tour group lead by a priest. They are being led to the highest point of the once-fields. This is when I choose my moment to strike. 

The skies swirl with great, fluffy, white clouds. They form into the shape of a fire. And from that fire, I speak.

"Mortals of the land, of the land that is ultimately mine. Harken well and give me thine full attention." My voice booms. The awestruck and afraid small group looks up. Even standing here, under my glory, they are still haughty. Still arrogant. But still. It is satisfying to see them at least somewhat afraid. There is no sound as I speak my next words. "I shall deliver amongst you the power to heal any wound and cure any sickness. I will grant this power, this power that flows from myself, to the one whom I deem most worthy. Go! Speak this truth to all the lands! So that all might see what miracles I will bring about!" 

I finish my speech, and the bewildered onlookers are still staring at my flame cloud. I turn the cloud to real flame, and there it stands burning in the sky. At this, they all go onto their knees, keeping their heads looking up. I smirk, to know, that they are kneeling to me. Soon enough they will be kneeling to my chosen saviour. I wonder if she will choose to grant them mercy. 

I turn my mind back to all my people, who are struggling and suffering and mourning and loving. Who are standing as strong as they can amidst all that is weighing them down. 

And so the tour group makes it known to all their families and friends all that they have heard and seen. They make it known to all that they actually care about, the truth that I told them up on the mountain. That I will be giving to my chosen one the power to cure all sicknesses. Those people then in turn tell all their family and all their friends. So on and so forth until all of the upper classes know. 

But they are not my goal. They are not the people who I am hoping to share the truth of my mission with. 

Servants overhear their masters. They must, when it is all that their masters talk about for hours on end. The god they think they're worshipping making an appearance, declaring that They will make a sign onto the lands. That They will choose a saviour. The servants overhear this. 

And they tell their people, and the word spreads. It spreads to exactly the people I want to spread it to. It spreads to my people, who toil under the hot sun or in sweltering factories. 

My people are amazed, as I have always known they would be. They are amazed and they are humbled. But not only are they humbled, they are also given a new confidence. A confidence that was long denied them. The confidence to be sure that their god is listening to them, their god is real, their god will send something to help them. 

For I am their god, I am their god truly. When they pray on my name, their prayers slither and snake their way to me. Their prayers prowl and howl their way to me. Their prayers tread across the sky and make their way to my ears. Not to Markeera, but to me. When they pray for deliverance, for hope, for healing, for mercy, I hear it all. When they pray for protection for their loved ones I hear it. When they pray for comfort for those taken away, I hear it. And all their prayers make me stronger.

And all their prayers have given me the strength I needed in order to make my move. 

And I know I am giving my people strength. And my heart wells up in joy and glory at the knowledge that I am giving them strength. I know that I will give them more strength yet. I know that I will give them more hope. And I will give them victory. If all goes right. Which it will. I will make sure of that.