Zina hesitated for a moment before stepping forward, her sandals crunching on the dry, cracked earth. She approached the crowd of villagers gathered around the statue of the long-gone goddess, their voices raised in desperate prayer. Her heart pounded in her chest, but she knew she had to try.
"Um, hello?" Zina waved her hand, her voice uncertain but hopeful.
The villagers abruptly turned toward her, their faces a mixture of shock and indignation. An elderly man, his face lined with both age and exhaustion, gasped loudly, his eyes wide with disbelief.
"Huuuu! How disrespectful, you little child!" he exclaimed, his voice filled with outrage. "Can you not see that we are praying to the goddess for rain? You have no right to interfere!"
Another woman, clutching a thin child to her chest, glared at Zina with equal disdain. "Boo! Get away from here if you don't know how to show respect. Get away!"
Zina froze, the sharpness of their words cutting through her like a knife. She had approached them with the best of intentions, but now she felt utterly out of place, like an intruder in their sacred moment. Her hand, still half-raised in greeting, faltered and fell to her side.
"Hm…" Zina mumbled awkwardly, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. She looked around at the hostile faces, feeling a wave of embarrassment wash over her. It was clear they didn't see her as a savior, let alone a goddess.
She bit her lip, feeling the sting of their rejection. But deep inside, she also felt a growing resolve. These people were suffering, and even if they didn't realize it yet, she had the power to help them. Zina straightened her posture, the awkward smile slowly fading as determination took its place.
The harsh words from the crowd still hung in the air when a sudden, desperate cry pierced the tense silence.
"Shut uppppp!" The voice was cracked and frail, but the sheer desperation in it commanded attention. Heads snapped around to see an old woman, thin and frail, staggering forward. Her body was emaciated, every bone and joint visible beneath her weathered skin, and her movements were unsteady as if the very act of standing drained her strength. She was the village's fortune teller, known to some as "Baba."
"Forgive me, forgive us, goddess!" Baba cried out, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and reverence.
The crowd, caught off guard, turned their attention from Zina to the fortune teller. The murmurs of disbelief and annoyance quieted as they watched Baba, who had collapsed to her knees in the dust, her frail body trembling as she clutched her hands together in supplication.
Then, with a surprising burst of energy, Baba pushed herself up and began to stumble toward Zina, her thin arms flailing awkwardly as she struggled to keep her balance. When she reached the bewildered girl, she threw herself at Zina's feet, bowing low to the ground.
"Please, shut up!" Baba pleaded, her voice now barely above a whisper. "You don't understand! The one you are mocking, the one you are cursing, is a goddess!"
Zina blinked in shock, her heart skipping a beat as she felt the eyes of the entire village on her. She pointed a hesitant finger at herself, her lips curling into a nervous, almost angelic smile as she tried to deny what the old woman was saying. "Me? No, I'm not…" she began, her voice soft, almost timid.
But Baba wouldn't be swayed. "You can't deceive me!" she exclaimed, lifting her head just enough to look up at Zina with eyes that seemed far too sharp and knowing for her frail appearance. "I've been alive for 170 years, child, and I know the aura of a god… or a devil."
A wave of shock rippled through the crowd as Baba's words sank in. The villagers who had been so quick to shun and scold Zina now stood frozen, their disbelief slowly turning into something else—fear, awe, perhaps even hope. They exchanged uncertain glances, whispers of "Baba is the real deal" and "She knows what she's talking about" spreading like wildfire.
Finally, one by one, they began to lower themselves to the ground, bowing their heads in a display of respect and repentance. The murmurs grew louder, the crowd voicing their regret and pleading for forgiveness.
"Please forgive us, goddess… We didn't know… Please, show us mercy…"
Zina, still standing at the center of this unfolding scene, felt her cheeks flush with a mix of embarrassment and disbelief. She wasn't used to being the center of attention like this, and the sudden shift from hostility to worship left her feeling awkward and out of place. She closed her eyes briefly, her lips pulling into a strained smile as she scratched her cheek with one finger, a nervous habit she hadn't quite shaken.
The village around her seemed to blur as she tried to process what was happening. The dusty, barren ground, the crumbling huts, the desperate faces of the people—everything felt surreal, like she was caught in a dream she couldn't wake up from. And yet, as she looked down at Baba, who still knelt at her feet, Zina knew this was no dream. This was her reality now, and the weight of their hope and desperation pressed heavily on her shoulders.
What was she supposed to do now?
Zina slowly knelt down to the dusty ground, her white dress pooling around her as she tried to meet Baba's gaze. The villagers, still bowing, looked on in confusion and wonder, their murmurs growing quieter as they watched the strange interaction unfold.
"Why didn't you all just migrate?" Zina asked softly, her voice carrying a note of genuine curiosity as she looked into Baba's tear-streaked face. Zina's eyes, wide with concern, searched for answers in the old woman's weary expression.
Baba lifted her head slightly, just enough to look at Zina with a mix of sorrow and resignation. "Pardon me, my goddess," she began, her voice trembling with the weight of her words, "but we cannot. We are trapped within the dome of a cursed aura."
Zina blinked, her expression shifting to one of confusion. "A cursed aura?" she echoed, tilting her head slightly as she reached behind her to rub the back of her neck. Her fingers traced the soft strands of her long pink hair, a comforting gesture as she tried to make sense of what Baba was saying. "But… why don't I feel anything? It's like nothing's wrong."
Baba's old, tired eyes softened with understanding, though her voice remained heavy with despair. "It is because you are pure, my goddess," Baba explained, her words carrying the weight of reverence. "You are untouched by the curse, immune to its effects. But for us… for us, it is different. The curse clings to us, binds us to this land. If we try to leave, we will perish within the dome's boundaries."
Zina's heart sank as she listened, her gaze shifting to the other villagers—each one looking more gaunt and exhausted than the last. The barren ground beneath them was cracked and dry, the few patches of grass that remained brittle and yellowed. The once-lush fields were now wastelands, devoid of life, and the houses that lined the village were crumbling under the weight of neglect and despair.
Baba continued, her voice breaking with emotion. "It's been half a year since it last rained," she said, her thin hands trembling as she clasped them together in a gesture of pleading. "The crops have withered, the plants are dying, and our water supplies have run dry. We are running out of time… and we have been abandoned. The goddess who once watched over us is gone… and we have been left to die."
A tear slipped down Baba's cheek, followed by another, until the old woman was silently weeping before Zina, her body shaking with the force of her grief. The other villagers, seeing their revered elder so broken, began to weep as well, their cries filling the empty air with a sense of hopelessness that Zina had never experienced before.
Zina's heart ached as she looked around, her mind racing with the enormity of the situation. She had the power to help them, to lift the curse and bring rain to this desolate place. But how? And what would she do next? The burden of her newfound role as their goddess weighed heavily on her, and she felt an overwhelming sense of responsibility pressing down on her small frame.
She reached out, gently placing a hand on Baba's frail shoulder, feeling the old woman flinch slightly at her touch. "Don't cry, Baba," Zina whispered, her voice soft but resolute. "I'm here now. I'll figure something out."
But as she spoke those words, Zina couldn't help but feel a pang of doubt. She was still so new to this world, so unsure of her powers and her place in it. Could she really save these people, or was she destined to fail them, just as the other goddess had?
For a moment, the weight of the situation threatened to overwhelm her. But then, as she looked into Baba's tear-filled eyes and saw the flicker of hope that her presence had reignited, Zina knew she couldn't give up. Not now, not when these people were counting on her.
She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and let the cool breeze wash over her. She had to believe in herself, just as these villagers were beginning to believe in her.
As Baba continued to tremble before Zina, her frail body barely able to stand under the weight of her fear, she mustered the courage to speak again. Her voice quivered with trepidation as she asked, "Pardon me again, but… may I ask, goddess, what kind of god are you? And… what is your name?"
Zina blinked, her surprise evident as she processed the question. A small, awkward smile tugged at the corners of her lips, and she scratched her cheek with one finger again—a nervous habit she couldn't seem to shake. "Well… I'm the goddess of creation," she answered softly, her voice a mix of humility and uncertainty. "And, um, my name is Zina."
The moment the words left her lips, a ripple of shock swept through the gathered villagers. Their eyes, once filled with despair and hopelessness, now widened in a mixture of awe and terror. The fear was palpable, a heavy weight that hung in the air as if the very mention of her title had struck them to their cores.
Baba, her wrinkled face paling even further, stumbled back a step, her hand clutching at her heart as if it might leap from her chest. "S-sorry, goddess," she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. "We… we didn't know. Please… spare us."
The murmurings of the other villagers grew louder, their voices rising in a chorus of panic. "Is this the end of the world?" one man whispered, his voice thick with fear. "The absolute goddess herself has come down… does this mean it's over?"
"Please… please don't end the world yet," another woman pleaded, her voice trembling as she clutched her child closer. "We're not ready to die… we haven't even had a chance to live!"
Zina's awkward smile faltered as she took in their reactions, her heart sinking as she realized how terrified they were. This wasn't the awe or respect she had hoped for—it was sheer, unbridled fear. They weren't seeing her as a savior; they were seeing her as a harbinger of doom.
Her expression twisted into a cringe as the weight of their misunderstanding settled over her. She felt her face flush with embarrassment, and she let out a low, nervous laugh that barely escaped her lips—a soft, almost inaudible sound that she hoped would somehow ease the tension. "Ah… ha… ha… ha…" she chuckled weakly, her laughter more of a nervous reflex than anything else.
But her attempt at humor did little to calm the villagers. If anything, it seemed to make them even more uncertain, their fear deepening as they stared at her with wide, fearful eyes.
Zina glanced around, feeling a growing sense of helplessness. How was she supposed to reassure them when they were so convinced that her presence signaled their doom? She had come to help, to bring hope to this desolate village, but instead, she had only added to their terror.
She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself, but the sight of their trembling forms and pleading eyes made it difficult to find the right words. She wanted to tell them that everything would be okay, that she wasn't there to end the world or bring destruction—but the fear in their eyes made her doubt whether they would even believe her.
In that moment, Zina realized just how daunting her role as a goddess truly was. The power she wielded was immense, but so too was the responsibility that came with it. These people were looking to her for salvation, and yet they feared her as much as they hoped for her help. It was a delicate balance, one that Zina wasn't sure she was ready to navigate.
But she knew she had to try. She had to find a way to calm their fears, to show them that she wasn't the enemy. That she was there to save them, not to condemn them.
Her mind raced as she tried to think of what to say next, her awkward smile still lingering as she met their fearful gazes.