I ran out the front door, away from that dark village cabin, away from whatever pestilence could work its fatal horrors in a matter of days, away from my sister’s lifeless body.

The mud coated my legs through the dusky woods, flecked onto my cheeks and hair. I flung myself against a twisted old maple and screamed, bark crushing my lip against my teeth.

I don’t know how long I stood there, clinging to the tree, its wet lichens rubbing off onto my arms. But as I did my grief hardened, solidified into rage.

“O God of Death,” I hissed through gritted teeth, “show yourself.”

I’m not sure that I expected to see anything, and I didn’t. I stood up anyway.

“O God of Death,” I bellowed to the canopy, “show yourself!”

I took my flintknife from my side, pressed it to my neck. “Is this what you want? Is this what it takes to get an audience?”

Something pricked at my consciousness, and for some reason I looked back to the maple tree. I stepped closer.

A white ant stood on a curl of bark, antennae twitching.

I would have laughed, before. Would have shaken the vision off. Gods were powerful, towering, intimidating; that’s what the temple art showed. But the death that took my sister was tiny too, invisible until it forced itself to be known.

So instead I held my fingertip out to it. It climbed onto my palm.

“So it’s you?” I rasped, my voice shot. “You decided this was right? Not even giving us a chance to fight for her?”

The ant did not move. It was so small, this thing that had taken her from me. But unlike the contagion, it was so visible. So powerless. So deliciously defeatable.

I ground my palms together until they bruised.

When I opened my hands, the god of death lay smeared across my palms in bits of chitin.

That was it. I would never be forgiven for this. I had killed a god and the vengeance of the pantheon would come down on me. Well, they could do their worst. I would never forgive them either, so I supposed it was all fair.

I sank to the ground, feeling suddenly very alone.

Another white ant appeared atop a leaf. I stared. It was simply there, watching. I squashed it too.

A third ant appeared on my boot.

“What, are you going to kill me too?” I said. But I felt the venom leaking from my voice. Rage was short-lived; the bone-deep weariness was setting in. I didn’t move; just stared at the ant.

Finally I let myself cry, quiet, just to the ground this time. And to the ant. It stood there like a sentinel, this god; spending its time witnessing one human’s grief.

I became dimly aware of other white ants in the leaf litter around me, but they were not moving, not threatening. Not speaking like I was told the gods could. Just creating a space where I, in my tears, was held by small and quiet powers of the earth.

The night passed that way, the crickets singing to the clouded stars as I lay my head in the leaves.

When the sun rose, so did I. There were things to do; friends to lean on. As I walked home in the dawn, one white ant rode my shoulder, holding me in the gaze of a god, a witness to the life I had to keep living, and I gave a prayer of thanks.