Free The Reward of The Oolyay by Liam Alden Smith Page B

Oolyay,  anger with a God is acceptance of that God - one cannot be angry at a force that does not exist, lest they be angry at themselves. Yet Inlojem was unsure whether he was angry at the Deity of Torment and Irony, or whether he was angry at himself.
    Iquay called “Up here,”, and the sound broke his thoughts. The bony Vesh’s finger pointed to a ridge that lingered off from the mountain path. “This path is very rough, but it’s the most direct route…if we want to make it there tonight-“
    “What does it matter?” Teftek asked, defeated. Inlojem gripped Teftek’s arm and looked at him like he had looked upon so many desperate, confused children. The captain's face seemed to relax a little. He pulled his arm away from Inlojem and gestured for Inlojem to stay ahead of him.
    *  *  *
    The steep trail became more orderly and civilized after it surpassed some rocky cliff sides and ascended higher and higher into the stark, stunning glacier-cut peaks. Burning effigies stuck out of the rock faces alongside the trail to stave off the shades. They emanated bright green flames into the dark blue shroud that slowly crept over the land as dusk lurked across the horizon. Flurries of snow battered their bodies and sucked the heat out of them as they climbed the ever ascending trail, its steepness becoming challenging for old feet, for diseased feet, and for disheartened feet.
    Inlojem lifted up the boy and pressed him against his chest when he saw the child suffering from chill, and wrapped the youngling in his thick cloak. He pressed his old hands behind the back of the boy’s head and caressed it to comfort the child. What a luxury a child was, something that those who were not so consumed with faith had dared to conceive. But never was this an option for an orphan from the North, whose family had been slain by the whims of a tribal feud. Never was this an option for old Inlojem, whose faith was hard to gain, and never easy to keep.
    The joy of being saved by Quantelenk, against all odds of despair, was the irony that had allowed Inlojem’s faith to flourish for so long. It was the correct type of irony that evened out torment in a way which allowed the Oolyay to open to Inlojem. As a boy he was faithless; even into his adolescence, the tricks of old Vesh who trundled about in his village of shacks and farms seemed like only that - tricks. They could not read minds or tear apart Shades or do any of the things which it had been said a real Necrologist could do. They were simply placeholders for a very old, very dead faith.
    He never dared tell a soul of his misgivings against the Oolyay, because those who refused to believe were bound for torment. Yet this seemed unfair, because those who did believe were bound for irony. Irony was the clause of the universe that adhered to each and every person like sap-binding and caused one to fumble so another would prosper. This meant that even one’s own prospering soul benefited from the ruination of another. It made Inlojem feel guilty to have faith, lest he take advantage of some poor farmer whose wretched harvest inspired his good fortune. Neither did he want to be taken advantage of by some blessed midwife or iron-crafter who benefited from Inlojem’s suffering. Having faith was a gamble. But faithlessness was bound to bring torture upon oneself. He often wondered how a religion could even pretend to have sway over the faithless.
    But Inlojem kept the rituals sacred and proceeded along the ways of ceremony until he reached his forty-sixth harvest, all the while disbelieving secretly even as he showed his faith openly. On a day of no particular significance, a short time after the forty-sixth harvest had passed, a raider named Trenjlonk, whose power had grown within the region, came to the village and threw down the bloody head of an Oolyayn Necrologist. Inlojem recalled it vividly, memorizing every detail of the dead, red-eyed face, immersed by violet-crusted hair and