The Gods of Pegana: One More Dawn

Somewhere above the stars, a tired man was keeping the world alive. He had one drumstick. His fingers were beginning to open.

His name was Skarl. His drum had lulled the Maker to sleep. If the drumming stopped, the Maker would wake—and the worlds would be gone.

While the Maker slept, the smaller gods made worlds to amuse themselves. Down below, people planted gardens, raised children, and hoped for another morning.

Skarl had been drumming before their oldest cities were built. Sometimes his arm grew weary. Still the stick rose. Still it came down.

One day he would carry his drum into the darkness beyond the worlds. His work would be over. For now, another stroke was coming due.

He loosened one finger. Then another. Before the next stroke, he closed them round the stick again. The Maker slept on.

Below him, dawn reached the little garden. A father knelt in the grass. Across from him, a child held a red ball in both hands.

Her throw fell short. Her father got up slowly, one hand on his knee. He fetched the ball and knelt again.

“Again,” she said. This time he tossed it to her. Skarl watched the red ball rise above the low wall, then begin to fall.

The ball came down crookedly. She trapped it under her chin and laughed. Her father laughed too. For a moment, there was nothing else they needed.

Skarl watched them get ready for another throw. His arm still hurt. He closed his fingers round the stick and struck.

In the garden, the child held out the ball. Her father opened his hands. Above the stars, Skarl lifted the stick for the next beat.