Zlatoosk the Terrible, god of war and llamas, was in a foul mood.
He cursed the thieves who had stolen him from the king’s grave.
He cursed the merchant who had imprisoned him in a water-and-flake-infested globe.
He cursed the tourist who had bought him in the marketplace, the woman who wore flowered mumus and talked to her cats.
But his most vicious curse he saved for the baby now rolling him about on the floor and slathering his glass prison with saliva. Channeling his rage, he willed that a lightning bolt might fall from heaven and smite the vile infant.
In centuries past, he had summoned thunderclouds. But that was when his pride and strength had fed on the offerings of kings.
He felt a surge of power. A small spark leapt from the surface of the globe and struck the child’s nose. The baby dropped the orb and began to scream.
Zlatoosk gloated in his revenge. The mantle rolled into view, and he knew the lesser idols of the hearth—especially the pale child with wings and ridiculously large eyes—were in awe of his power.
Then his orb rolled under the gate that had been placed across the basement stairs.
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To this day, Zlatoosk lies beneath the stairs among broken shards of glass and scattered flecks of white.
He is still in a foul mood, though the mice do leave him offerings on occasion.
(This is my contribution to Advent Ghosts 2010.)
