House of the feathered god

All he could think was that it hurt. His arms hurt, his back was so strained he could hardly find a position to sleep, even his legs ached from all the effort. What hurt the most was the raw skin on his shoulders, where the rope cut deep into the flesh, no matter how he tried to protect himself with pieces of cloth torn from an old loin garment.
Still, he was one of the lucky few who had been spared death. Most of his captured brothers had been sacrificed many moons ago to whatever gods these barbarians believed in. He barely understood their tongue, let alone their crazy talk of the obscure god that demanded such folly - hurling huge stones over many miles, breaking their backs to build this monstrosity to please some faraway god.

Things were much simpler in his clan - it all made sense. Mother Nature the all-wise was never so demanding of them. She understood they needed to eat and accepted their offerings and the customary apology. A small clearing was all the temple they needed, a few bare bones laid on the ground by the wiseman all the ritual Mother Nature ever asked of them. And she never failed them. She always provided. She always looked after her own.
These barbarians did not even know about Her and when he tried to explain, they laughed and call him a savage. What did he know of the great feathered god? But, then, such great a god would never show himself to the brutes that lived in the jungle, now would he?

He had learned to keep his eyes down and his mouth shut. Even that day when the old man with the big beard made that terrible scene and demanded they move the bloody wall they’ve been working on for months. Or else the mighty god will be pissed and won’t come back to them. If he didn’t come back how would he even know the wall was not built right? But he never said anything and later that night he thanked Mother Nature he didn’t get flogged for a mistake that was not his fault. See, Mother Nature was always there, not like the ever demanding faraway god. Yet, that was none of his business. He only hoped to live to see the day when the building was done. They won’t need him anymore then. He will be free to make his way back home.

When the day came, the place swarmed with faces he’d never seen before. The noble folks of the clan, with their golden robes and their smooth hands, the hands of men that had never pulled on the ropes or hoisted the rocks in places - they were all there to talk with the feathered god that lived in the skies. They all went inside, while those who had done the hard labor were pushed back like cattle in a fenced enclosure, kept away from the eyes of those who would speak with the god. Little did he care, he’d had enough of the temple anyway. Two full years that he’d been working there. One thing he couldn’t understand though - why would that mysterious god grant favors to the strangers inside a temple made not with their hands, but the hands of slaves. They did all the work and got no credit - not that he cared for the feathered one, but still. Not even a better meal for the celebration. Only the mean-looking guards cracking their whips. He took shade under the tree and the bark brought comfort to his crooked back. He stood still feeling Mother Nature breathing life up the veins of the tree. It was a beautiful day, the leaves shone with a vibrant green, that special color they get when spring pushes into summer and Mother Nature is happiest.

The chants in the temple grew louder and the beat of drum was frantic now. He couldn’t help himself. He looked up searching the sky to see if the god will show his face. Who knows maybe there is a god up there that would reveal himself? It was a fine temple after all, he had to admit. He felt pride swelling his chest and he hated himself for that. Here he was, betraying the only god he knew.
No god showed himself, not even when the Sun could clearly be seen through the high window of the bloody wall they had moved not once, but twice. Think of all their careful plans! If there was a feathered god watching from above, clearly they must have missed something. He wanted to laugh, but he heard people crying and shouting. Right there, in their midst. There was some commotion he didn’t understand at first. When he did, he almost fainted. Guards kicking the slaves with heavy sticks, forcing them into a line, marching them to the temple. Finally, they would be allowed inside if only for the briefest of time. Just long enough for the priest’s knife to carve their hearts out. Only then their god would be satisfied. He was too worn-out by now, too beaten to try and fight them. All he could hope for was a miracle. Mother Nature would not allow for him to be killed on such a splendid day. But she did.

Story written for @mariannewest's freewrite challenge, today's prompt was: 'temples made with hands'l! Check out her blog and join our freewrite community.

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