We are headed north, to see the local cleric, Father Tucker. To our right, the sun is beginning to rise, casting long shadows along the dirt road, where on either side, morning dew gathers on blades of grass. Behind us, Tavenport still slumbers, its breathing deep and peaceful.

I look to my left, spotting my father. Since we set out, he has not said a single word. His gaze has been trained ahead, his face stern and deep in thought. Dressed in hide leather, sword at his hip, he looks like a man preparing to walk into battle. Determination fuels his strides, which are long and unconsidering, that by the time we crest the hill upon which the local church stands, I’m nearly sprinting to keep up. Then along the trodden dirt path we continue, passing the tombstones of Tavenport’s ancestors: mayors, clergies, warriors. Beckers.

The church draws near. It is a tall, single story building, set in stone, capped in wood. In the front, a tower stands, a large rosary window on display, the roof rising to a singular point. On the walls are etched its patron’s emblem, four lines, two vertical, two horizontal. They form, to me, what looks like the symbol pi, 𝝅, save for a missing line on the latter. From an outcrop on the right, my father pushes through the heavy wooden doors, which creak open and usher us inside.

Entering, I find myself in a grand nave, lined with rows of wooden pews. The area is spacious, the ceiling high- at least thirty feet up in the air- supported by thick stone pillars joined by arches. Scattered about are statues, carved in wood, save one large one which sits front and center, on the altar. It alone is made of gold. Regal, majestic, it casts the entire space in a reverential atmosphere.

A voice speaks, warm and booming, echoing into my ears. “Tell me if you’ve heard this one before. Two elves walk into a bar,” it begins, “The third one ducks.”

I turn, spotting an aged, large-bellied man stepping out of the shadows. Short, white hair covers his head, while a long, white beard covers his face. He is dressed in yellow, like a banana, with sandals on his feet. When he sees me, he grins, throwing a wave in my direction. “Ho, Sammy boy! Up and about already? Good! Good!” He approaches and gives my father a nod. “Mayor Becker.”

“Father Tucker, good morning.”

“Indeed! A wondrous morning!” the priest exclaims. Then turning to me with a grin, he says, “I saw an owl, you know. Asked him what he was doing up in that tree out back so early in the morning. Know what he said?” I shake my head. “He said, ‘Hoot if I know, hooman, but owl tell you when I find out!”

“That’s a real ‘hoot’, Father Tucker,” I reply, giving the man a wink.

I didn’t know it was possible, but the cleric’s grin widens. “Ay! Clever boy, aintcha?” he laughs, ruffling my hair fondly, before continuing, “Say, have you heard this one about dwarves? It’s told that-”

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“Ahem,” a voice interrupts. It’s my father. There’s a scowl on his face as he looks in our direction. “Father Tucker, a bit of propriety, please.”

The priest laughs. “Ho! Ho! You’re right, Mayor Becker, of course. I’ve seem to have misplaced my manners in my old age.” Then leaning towards me, he whispers, “Your father’s always been a stickler for customs, you know. Even as a child. In fact, funny story, this one time-” Another cough, causing the priest to jolt upright. “Yes, yes, we’re going. Let’s go. Right this way.”

Father Tucker leads us to the altar, where the large statue in gold rests. Close up, its features are even more majestic. The face of a goddess, narrow with high cheekbones and a sharp nose. Flowing golden hair curling at the shoulders, eyes staring into the distance. Naked, save for a thin nightgown that exposes her form. Her left hand is raised, as if reaching for something. What, I don’t know.

My father and the cleric both kneel, lower their heads and offer a prayer. I spend the moments studying the goddess once more. According to the townsfolk, the goddess’ name is Emi. She is the patron of sailors and horses, and given that Tavenport is a port city, it makes sense she’d be the goddess to be revered.

Staring at the statue causes me to reflect upon my own goddess, the one who granted me this reincarnated life. I wonder what she presides over, and who worships her.

Wait. Should I?

Agnostic on Earth, the thought had never even crossed my mind. But now I wonder if not doing so would be a sign of disrespect.

I continue to gaze upon the statue, and as I ponder the question presented, something else suddenly starts creeping into my mind. I can’t quite place the feeling, a nagging, a tip of the tongue. Something about this statue, that though I’ve seen it many times before, something about it today seems… different. The longer I stare, the stronger the feeling grows, until suddenly, its face changes.

My goddess. And then I blink, and it’s gone.

I shake my head, look again, and it’s Emi still. Did I just imagine it? Without thinking, I feel myself move, until I’m right up against the statue. I place a hand on the golden surface, the metal cool to the touch. I trace with a finger, the outline of her feet. There’s a crack, small, but noticeable. Had that always been there?

“Samuel! What on Arcadia do you think you’re doing?!” my father demands.

I jump in surprise, snapping back to reality. “I, I’m sorry, I-” I feel a hand on my shoulder. It’s Father Tucker.

“Relax, Mayor Becker, the boy just wanted a closer look. No harm, no ‘owl’, am I right?” I force a smile; my father does not look amused. An awkward silence befalls the church, which the priest obliviously breaks. “So, anyways, how do you feel, Sammy? You were quite the mangled mess when your father called for me, but seems like you’re just about healed already!”

“I’m fine, Father Tucker. I feel great. Thank you for casting a healing spell on me,” I reply with a slight bow of the head.

“Stiff! Way too stiff! Did your father tell you to say that?” the cleric laughs, slapping me on the back. The force nearly causes me to stumble. “Well, I did cast a spell, but your own body did most of the heavy lifting. Ah, what it must be like to be young again! And a prodigy no less! I’m envious, Sammy. Green with envy, I’ll have you know.”

“Prodigy?” I ask, confusion in my voice, “What do you mean, Father Tucker?”

The cleric looks to me, suddenly equally confused, before turning to my father, “Mayor Becker, you didn’t tell him? I would think as his father, you’d be the most excited to-”

My father interrupts, grabbing ahold of the cleric’s wrist. “Father Tucker, a word please? In private.” He emphasizes the last words before turning to me. “Samuel, stay here. Stay out of trouble. Don’t touch anything. Understand?” When he sees me nod, he pivots to leave, Father Tucker in tow, and I can see that the priest is struggling to keep up.

“Mayor Becker, Mayor Becker,” he says, “Please, stop pulling. I can walk. I’ll trip! I’ll-”

Oh, he actually fell.