Under the Weight of Everyday Gods
Clem lost a pearl once. Not a real one; it came from an old pearl necklace that she kept taking from her mother’s vanity case. So, her mother simply gave it to her. One day, because of her constant tugging and pulling in the name of admiring them, the thread that held the pearls came loose, and naturally, Clem gathered them all up and stored them in an empty camera film canister. There simply must be a way to restore the necklace, or so she believed; one day, these fragments might regain their glory, be whole again, be masterful again. Their purpose? To reclaim their former form, their fate? Not yet lost to time.
Soon enough, it became a ritual for Clem to fuss over the canister of pearls. She would open them, scatter them over her bed, count them, check for scratches, wear and tear, and then neatly store them away back in the canister. As after-school duties go, caring for the future pearl necklace was her favorite. So, she wasted no time in the evening niceties that were due to her family, ignoring them to instead spend all waking hours with her little pet project. The canister, neatly tucked, or rather hidden between her clothes, would be pulled out, admired, and then once she was satisfied that they were all there, as they should be, she would put them back where they belonged before emerging from her room, a glow of satisfaction and purpose on her little face. A smirk even when her family enquired about her prompt disappearance, and her plans for that strange little bottle of unstrung pearls. It was a secret that they weren’t part of. It was a personal project that could put little Clem on the map. For now, she was just the youngest of the household, a child, and no one assigns purpose to a child. Her role in the family was to do as she was told. And she wasn’t told much - school, home, study, bed, eat, play.
This was all soon to change, of course; the pearl necklace would give her glory and big accolades from her family. If only she knew how and where to begin. She’d need string, something to hold the two ends together - a clasp of some sort, and a pendant for the middle. This wasn’t going to be an ordinary pearl necklace. This was going to be version 2.0. But where could she find all this?
Clem, consumed by this quandary at school, came home one evening and went straight to her room. While wondering about the project timeline and the raw material procurement, she reached into her cupboard, blindly feeling for her little treasure canister, tugging it out by its top, but before she could react, the top of the canister came loose. The container itself crashed on the floor, sending the pearls rolling away from her to different nooks and corners all over the room. Clem let out a muffled yet shrill yelp; her plans now wasted, scattered on the floor, errant white devils escaping her vision in an instant.
With matched lightning-fast reflexes, Clem got on all fours and gathered those that she could spot in plain view, then she went hunting for the more difficult of the lot. She was tiny enough to squeeze through the problematic crannies, the underside of the bed, the space between the walls, and the furniture; if not her whole body, then at least her slender arms. It took her a while, but without a single peep, the discipline of a Buddhist monk, and the flexibility of a slithering snake, she hunted down the pearls with patience and perseverance. All but one.
The disappearance of one single pearl wouldn’t necessarily put a wrench in her plans. In the unlikely event the necklace turned out a little shorter, she could add another charm, perhaps, make the necklace kitsch, artsy; it was the trend to be un-ordinary anyway. And maybe this style would get picked up, make her famous, even. And who would know all this fame transpired because she lost a pearl? She certainly wouldn’t tell anyone. Only she knew how many were there to begin with…37 pearls. Well, 36 now.
After all that demanding workout, Clem lounged on the couch idly watching television. The fate of the lost pearl was still running in the background of her mind when the phone rang. It was the days when one family had one landline phone, and it was always wired in the living room, most often next to the television set. Now, Clem knew that when the phone rang at home, it was never for her. She didn’t know too many people her age who had free access to the house phone. If she picked up the ringing phone, they’d ask for her mother, or her father, or, on rare occasions, her sister. But no one called asking for her. At least not yet. So, she let the phone ring itself to a halt. When it rang again, she called on her mother for whom the call was likely for. Her mother walked in, drying her wet hands on the sides of her night coat, a quick fix rather than finding a towel - the wet hands, a side effect of working in the kitchen.
On reaching the ringing phone, her mother shot Clem a disappointed look, sighed, and picked up the phone. Clem found that quizzical. Even if she had picked up the phone, her mother would have still had to make the trip from the kitchen, right?
Then she heard her mother scream. It was loud and painful. The phone dropped to the floor, and her mother soon followed. That got the attention of her dad and sister, who appeared by her mother’s side instantly.
But what had happened?
Clem’s uncle had just died. It was a heart attack, and it was quick. The rest happened in a blink. They had to leave town to go to the funeral. They didn’t pack much. It was a 3-hour drive. The whole family, other aunts, cousins, and close friends made the trip together. Nobody slept the night. The next day, her uncle was buried, and then they came back home. 24 hours and Clem was living in a world different than the one she knew how to inhabit.
This was Clem’s first interaction with death, at least one that she could fully understand the gravity of. She knew now what that felt like, what it meant for someone to grieve. She finally understood the permanence of death and everything else that came with it.
The aftermath of it all went something like this.
Her mother remained sad; she would cry at the slightest appearance of confrontation. Her sister and dad would mostly stay out of the way, instructing Clem to do the same. Mourning, they called it, and her mother needed time to sort the sorrow in her heart and give it time to heal, so everything could go back to normal.
For the most part, things did go back to normal, not the normal Clem knew, but one that was laced with an odd kind of quiet suffering that would never go away, but nonetheless, for now, this was as normal as life could get. School, home, study, bed, eat, play – the same yet shadowed by an unknown gloom; an unspoken and unwelcome permanent guest.
Time slowly inched away from the incident, and one day, while reaching for something in the back of her cupboard, Clem came upon her canister of pearls. Left untouched, forgotten for a while, and oddly different. Like it now carried a purpose different from the one it had before. The last time she saw these pearls or held this canister, something terrible had happened. It was a memory vivid enough for her to pinpoint the date, the time, and everything that had happened. The last time she held this canister, she was a girl with an art project; now she was a girl holding on to a trigger.
Fear suddenly gripped her, sweat beads peppering her skin. She clutched the box tightly, then wound her other hand around for extra protection. The last time this fell… and she unreasonably believed that incident could replicate; she wasn’t certain why it felt that way, but she wasn’t going to take any more chances.
She sat on the bed, the canister empty, the pearls strewn before her. All 36 of them, present and accounted for…there had been 37 before. Just like she had had an uncle before. They looked eerily whiter than she could remember, more matte than shiny, much of the enamel wearing off them, and they no longer looked like they could be a necklace again. The pearls had shapeshifted, or rather, soul-shifted.
Why be afraid? Clem questioned herself. What possible reason was there to be afraid of these beads in front of her? If she wanted to, she could simply pick them, go straight over to the bin, and toss them. They’d be gone forever, and she liked the idea of never seeing these pearls again, ever. She certainly did not want to string them anymore. Their potential now lost. So why couldn’t she simply throw them away?
She counted them again, 36. There was meaning here. Something she wasn’t seeing yet. The day played in her mind again. She meddled with the pearls, lost one, and then her uncle died.
There! The explanation she was looking for. The Gods had looked upon these pearls and had imbued them with awful dark power, an evil magic that was contained within each bead, and losing or fiddling around too much…well, she had already borne its consequences.
Or perhaps, each of these pearls contained the soul of each member of her family. She counted them all. There were definitely more than 36 family members, and she was sure she’d forgotten many others. But her brain had made the connection already. An easy justification for this glaring question was that these were just some of the souls, not all of them. Perhaps somebody else had the rest. And there was no way to tell whose soul resided in which pearl.
It didn’t matter. These pearls were precious now, and she, a child, was their guardian. It wasn’t a role she knew she had, and there was no way to refuse the responsibilities it came with. Her ignorance had levied a heavy toll. The lost pearl wasn’t just that. It wasn’t simply a rogue bead, lost to the crevices of the house. It was a soul that she had carelessly and thoughtlessly let go.
Could she tell this secret to anyone? Her mother or anyone who could talk her out of this sinister spiral that she was descending into. But could she reveal the powers of the pearls without disclosing how she knew? She would have to confess to being responsible for her uncle’s passing. And would her mother take kindly toward a child who had killed her dear brother? What if her mother began to hate her? What if she sent her away? What if her mother stopped loving her?
If only she hadn’t fussed over the canister so much.
No! She would have to guard this secret herself. She couldn’t risk being shunned by her family, even though this was selfish on her part. More importantly, disclosing their power and purpose could cause cascading or catastrophic events. The rules still weren’t clear enough. What if she were meant to carry this burden by herself? What if, for the foreseeable future, and beyond it, she was bound to the pearls and the secret they contained?
Days passed, then weeks, then months. Clem grew more and more weary of the pearls. Even though she was scared of handling them, there was always an itching urge to make sure they were all there. She would count them, maniacally at times. Once, then twice, and then again and again, and when she was done, she would wonder if she counted them properly, then do it again. She was stuck in a never-ending vicious whirlpool that was dragging her down.
Then came the question of its safekeeping. Putting them back among her clothes seemed risky. She couldn’t monitor them and keep track of the canister if they were always hidden between clothes. Plus, she shared the cupboard with her sister, and that could get risky. The solution she chose was to empty a square cubby in the cupboard and leave the canister there, with clear instructions and warnings to everyone in the house that they were not to be disturbed.
Every day, it seemed that the canister of pearls took over more space in Clem’s head. And slowly, she began to build a shrine for the canister in the cubby. She scavenged around the house to find statues of gods, picture frames, prayer beads, tea-light candles, and plastic decorative flowers. Surrounded by it all, crowned in terror rather than in reverence, she placed the dreadful canister of pearls.
In a house like any other on the street, inside the cupboard of a young girl, shrined among objects believed to appease the Gods, lived a terrifying entity, contained inside an old film canister.
There was a new addition to her duties. As a child of the household, much didn’t change. School, home, study, bed, eat, play. But her new role, as priestess of the pearl shrine in her cupboard, demanded of her ritualistic prayers offered to the gods.
When questioned by her partly amused and partly confused parents about this newfound burst of faith, Clem would simply tell them she planned to restring the necklace and that until then, she was keeping them in the canister for safekeeping. And because children are made up of strange stories and imaginations, her parents let her be.
Her made-up rituals were adhered to with devotion and fear, strengthening her belief every passing day. Every little detail was planned, structured, and obeyed faithfully. Moving her Gods was a necessary evil; she had to check on their condition and count them. What if one of the pearls had suddenly disappeared? So, even if removing them was risky, she had to do it. Otherwise, the screams in her head wouldn’t stop. Every day, she would slowly remove the canister, count all 36 pearls 8 times. A number she had finally closed in on. It was the perfect number, even and definitive.
One day after many, Clem woke up and while still on her bed stared into her open cupboard, ensuring the canister was in direct line of sight. This was what her life had become. Unwillingly playing and losing a staring contest against lifeless beads. The more she looked, the more powerless they seemed. What had she been thinking? And why the fear? There was no reason for this self-imposed imprisonment to continue, especially regarding such a silly trinket, the broken remnants of a pearl necklace that had lost value and worth the minute its string had snapped. And here she was, worshipping it as if it controlled her life and those of everyone else. She’d had enough. So, she rose from her bed with purpose, walked over to the shrine she had built, picked up the canister from its resting place, and holding onto it, walked over to her window that overlooked the street. Here presented before her was a decision. She could let these pearls take over her life, or she could end the whole drama. The obvious answer was the latter. She opened the canister and, sticking her hand through the window grills, overturned it. The pearls promptly flowed out and dropped onto the street and were soon gone, lost to the unfound corners. There. That was it. A brave decision. One that could give her the respite she needed.
And then the phone rang.
Clem woke up in sweats, short breaths, struggling to leave her. Her quick eyes scanned the cupboard, but it was closed. New fear seized her, and she could feel her chest tightening. The dinner from last evening was rising in her throat. She jumped out of bed and, in quick steps, reached the cupboard and yanked the door open. It was there. Sitting undisturbed, shining in its glory, the Gods she was now a slave to. She stood there a while, as her body began to heal from what had just happened, her breathing slowing down, her stomach calming the storm that was brewing mere seconds ago. With that came the tears, soft, unspoken grief mixed with the burden that shadowed her now. When the tears were gone, she softly picked up the canister, walked over to her bed, and counted the pearls. All 36 of them, 8 times.
This was the first of the many, many nightmares that would then begin to haunt Clem. Every time she would wake up in sweats, only to see the pearls safe and sound. Perhaps the Gods were angry that she had closed the door and left them in darkness. From then on, the doors of the cupboard were always left open.
Her days became relentless, demanding, and ruthless. From weeks rolling into months into years. At school, she would wonder if staying away from the pearls too long would anger them. At home, she would refuse to leave her room for long periods of time. Going out to family gatherings, parties, and movies became rarer and rarer.
Soon, she was an ascetic, secluding herself in devotion to the shrine she had built herself. Like a prisoner who lived in a cage of her own making. Only her faith grew stronger, and her prayers more fervorous. Since a daily check was riskier, she compromised on a weekly check and cleaning ritual. Then there were dedicated morning and nightly prayers.
If she had nightmares, then it meant the Gods were angry. Her solution for that was a blood offering, which she made the next morning. Placed inside the shrine was a box-cutter, which she would use to slice through her skin and produce a drop of blood as an offering.
Her devotion seemed to be working; nobody else had died so far, and after she began the blood sacrifice, even the nightmares had considerably reduced. As long as she followed the rules, nothing bad could happen.
‘Priestess of the cubby shrine’ was her new identity. It was simply the way her world worked. The girl, no, a priestess pledged to care for a canister of pearls that was once a necklace. That was her normal. Living in constant dread was also her normal. She knew no other life than the one she had designed. Everyone has their own version of normal, didn’t they? This was hers.
A day after many, Clem left for school after her morning duties at the shrine. Immediately after, her parents began boxing up their furniture and everything else to move into a bigger house. This was something they had been planning for a while. They had saved up enough to buy a better place, invested in it, and now a long-held dream of finally owning the place they would live in was coming true. And it was going to be a surprise for the children, who would finally get their own rooms.
Here was the plan: to have this house empty by the time the kids got back. Lock up the house for good, hand over the keys to the owners, blindfold the kids, and drive them to their new home. The parents smiled ear to ear as they packed with efficiency, stopping only to giggle while looking at each other.
As scheduled, by 4 pm, the house was empty. What had been their home for years was now just bricks and windows. The sheer joy in their voices carried and bounced off the walls, and while emptiness glared from each corner, the parents’ enthusiasm filled the space. They buzzed around with building anticipation with each passing second. Soon, the kids would be gifted this surprise they had been planning, their reactions worth documenting for future reference.
Like clockwork, they heard the footsteps on the staircase leading to the front door, which was left wide open. Clem entered first, saw her parents sharing chuckles like little school girls. Then she clocked the emptiness, all around them, everywhere through their home was emptiness, even in her room. A familiar dread held her chest, like an invisible demon’s claws sinking in tightly. Her first steps were slow, but soon she was sprinting toward her room. All empty. No bed, no curtains, no table, the cupboard, devoid of her belongings, and the shrine, gone.
She stood there a while, frozen, feeling the hold on her chest getting tighter. She was supposed to go back out and scream and shout and rage at her parents. She was supposed to run out and find the pearls at once. She was supposed to have never left them out of her sight. And yet, here she was, unable to take the next step. Silence crept up and surrounded the emptiness.
And then the phone rang.
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