We Must Love as God Loves
by Rajiv Moté
After the battle that drew the border between our village and the Forest Folk, the pastor told me I should know which passion ruled my heart: love or fear. God’s example was always love. I argued that love came easily to God because He had nothing to fear. Was it out of fear that I hefted my spear and checked the iron border fence every morning for the last ten years? Or was it out of love for our village and its people that I sought to protect them? For us mere mortals, to love was to fear. A border represented both passions.
It was out of love that I allowed Tanja to follow me this morning, skipping behind me, decapitating wildflowers with a stick. She’d woken early, and I had no reason to deny her. We would stroll along the edge of the dawn-lit forest, and then my wife, Mila, would join us to climb the hill to church. Mila and I had raised Tanja to respect the border, but she was curious—as any child would be. Had I feared for her more, I might have anticipated trouble.
Today, two dead men hung by the neck from a tree near the fence. I pulled Tanja to my chest to hide her face, but she squirmed to look.
The crows had been at them, but Tanja recognized them. “Those are the strangers who came through, three nights ago.” She was unruffled. Fear didn’t come naturally to this girl. Was it my fault for not teaching her? Some things ought to be feared.
“Poachers,” I said. We had warned the men. “This is Imp”—I corrected myself—“Forest Folk justice. Stay on this side of the fence, child. Look away.”
Tanja did no such thing. I watched her hands close on the iron bars as she scampered up and over the fence. Panic seized me as I hauled myself over, imagining her running into the trees before my feet touched the ground. The forest had a wild beauty, just like my daughter. I thought it might call to her.
Coming or going?
To love is also to keep secrets.
But she only waited, her head tilted back, watching the dead men swing gently in the breeze.
Like the fence, the head of my spear was cold iron, its tip hammered with two bladed edges. I’d kept it sharp as it had been ten years ago, when we’d won this border. I sawed at the ropes, but only succeeded at making the dead men swing wider.
Before I could shout “No, girl!” Tanja seized one of them by the legs to hold him steady. She grinned, pleased to help. I sighed and cut one down, then the other. The men fell, limbs bending as they never could in life.
Tanja helped lay their bodies straight among the wildflowers as though putting her dolls to bed. The pastor said fear was the enemy of love. My daughter had no fear.
I would return after church with a few lads to bury the men in the potter’s field. Before sunset, someone from the village would wrap cakes to leave under the tree, an apology to keep the peace.
Eight years ago, two years after the border was drawn, we had mounted a head on the fence. Our own justice. During the night, the Forest Folk retrieved it and left an offering of an earthen jar of berry wine. I poured it out and smashed the jar.
Coming or going?
We’d kept the peace then. It would hold now.
***
My daughter had a wild streak. Not disobedience—she did her chores, said her prayers, never ventured into the forest, and came home before sundown. But at festivals she’d tie up her skirts and dance like a fiend. She got into fights with bigger children—and sometimes won. She climbed trees and rooftops. She mimicked the calls of birds and animals. She constantly fidgeted in church. She stole kisses from boys and girls alike. Sometimes she sang in a gibberish tongue, and dogs in the village howled along.
Mila told me it was all natural. Tanja was a spirited child.
A man on the council once told me to rein my daughter in before she ran off with the Imps. I knocked his teeth in. I spent a day in the stocks for that, but Tanja sat at my feet, glowering at passersby, daring them to harass me. None dared. In that way, she was all mine: loyal to family, loyal to a fault.
Still, I often stared at my strange, wondrous little girl, searching for signs of Mila or myself. The refrain of an old, secret fear chanted in my mind.
***
I'd known I’d marry Mila long before our village waged war against the Forest Folk, to set the border neither people would now cross. It was no grand passion. Our families were friendly, and she was gentle, patient, and kind. That was enough for the likes of me.
When the fighting started, she prayed for me so hard, I could feel her prayers wrap my body like armor. She calmed my temper, even when the nights got hot and fearful. She’d anchored me and probably saved my life. I wondered what I’d done to deserve such devotion. The pastor explained that such things were not earned, like wages, but given, like grace. This was when I began to understand love.
***
A path wound up the hill, from the farms to church. Mila and I walked hand in hand while Tanja skipped and twirled among the bushes along the way. As we walked, I apologized to my wife. “She put on a brave face, but she’ll have nightmares. Next time I promise I’ll put my foot down against her following me.”
Families from the neighboring farms passed us on the climb. At the edges of my gaze, I couldn’t help but scrutinize their gaits, wondering if they showed a spryness belying their age. What color glinted in their eyes? If they caught me staring and returned a look, I scrutinized that too. Some descended the hill, not going to church. Them, I scrutinized the most. This village held more secrets than mine.
Mila shook her head. Tanja had her mother’s cheekbones and nose, but their mannerisms were so different. “She wants to be fearless, Jerrell. Like her father.”
I was never fearless, I didn’t say. Not at Tanja’s age, and not now. I watched the border, our neighbors, and even my own daughter out of that old, lurking fear. “It isn’t proper for a little girl to see such things.” It was queer for her to handle them so well.
“You have to let her be who she is,” Mila said.
Who she is.
Coming or going?
What choice was there? I loved my daughter. God’s example or no, I simply did.
***
Eight years ago, soon after Tanja was born, on a chilly and wind-haunted night, I’d heard the nursery window creak open. I had my spear close at hand—it’d been only two years since we’d paid for the border in blood.
The Imp—we called them Imps before the peace gave them the gentler name of “Forest Folk”—crouched on the windowsill above my daughter’s crib. Starlight outlined its squatting shape in profile. Its head swiveled, startled.
Imps, it was said, stole human children, replacing them with their cuckoos. None knew why. Each theory was darker than the next. We’d discovered some in our village, and suspected others. As before, I didn’t hesitate. The Imp had violated the peace. My spear of cold iron ran into its ribs, just under the arm. As it tumbled dead out the window, I saw it held a cuckoo. My bladed spearpoint had sliced into its swaddling.
Our own baby Tanja lay in her crib. I counted her fingers and toes. I held her close and filled my nostrils with her scent. I held her until her warmth melted the ice of my terror.
The head of the Imp, mounted on the border fence, was enough of a message—Mila convinced me to do no more. Too much fear could end the peace. It could start another war, and erase the border. The dead cuckoo looked too much like a human child, so we buried her in the churchyard, iron bands binding the tiny coffin.
Berry wine was left for us by the fence. I smashed the jar. But the peace held.
I replay that scene of violence in my mind, again and again. Was the Imp coming or going? Fear is the enemy of love.
***
As though he read the worry etched on my face, the pastor’s homily today was on God’s love, which He gives us without condition. It sets the example for how we, in turn, must love one another. Not wages, but grace. Beside me, Mila’s hands were folded in her lap. I laid my hand over them, loving. Tanja, seeing this, put her hand atop mine. The pastor described God’s love in sonorous tones, made resonant by the arched ceiling. Heady incense made the air otherworldly.
My eyes scanned the congregation, the familiar faces, and those less so. Who but God knew what lay behind their eyes?
My gaze locked with another man’s—his name escaped me—who worked on the sheep farm on the other side of the hill. I hadn’t shied away from someone’s stare since before the war. Neither, it seemed, had this fellow. So. What are you really? we asked each other without words. In the coils of perfumed smoke, I found myself wondering how he saw me, a near-stranger with a habitual glower on his face, eyes darting in suspicion and fear even as the pastor spoke about love. Through him, I saw myself, and I had to chuckle. Across the room, the man grinned back, abashed. No doubt a mirror to my own face.
I was born here, in this village by the forest, before we raised the fence. Most of us were. What earliest memories did any of us have, but of the loving parents who raised us, and the neighbors who helped us thrive? Truth is a story told to us by those we trust, and that we soon come to tell ourselves, and those who trust us. What point was there in letting doubt tangle those threads?
Tanja released my hand and squirmed in the pew, making ghastly faces at the pastor.
Mila sat so still, and breathed so slowly, I suspected she may have fallen asleep.
The man from the other side of the hill checked on his own wife and boys.
I could never love with God’s breadth, perfection, and absence of fear. But every morning I chose to love the family and village I had. There were secret histories and lineages here I would never know. I couldn’t foresee who my daughter truly was, until she became it. I could never be certain if the Imp I’d killed eight years ago was coming or going. All that was left to me was to love with as much grace as I could. Maybe, to God, that was all that mattered.
Rajiv Moté is a software professional and writer living in Chicago with his wife, daughter, and a tiny dog. His stories appear in Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Diabolical Plots, Reckoning, and other publications, and are catalogued at https://rajivmote.wordpress.com/published/. He scrapes off excess words on BlueSky at @rajivmote.bsky.social.
Author’s note: “My writing group, the Codex Writers, offered a writing prompt: ‘What are you afraid to know? Are you afraid for yourself, for a friend, or someone else? Why?’ It made me think about how our identities, as individuals and communities, are based on stories we tell ourselves. The scariest secret is one that undermines how we see ourselves and our loved ones. Can we transcend that threat? Can choosing our story be a moral act?”
“We Must Love as God Love” by Rajiv Moté. Copyright © 2026 by Rajiv Moté. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
Support Mysterion on Patreon!
After the battle that drew the border between our village and the Forest Folk, the pastor told me I should know which passion ruled my heart: love or fear. God’s example was always love. I argued that love came easily to God because He had nothing to fear. Was it out of fear that I hefted my spear and checked the iron border fence every morning for the last ten years? Or was it out of love for our village and its people that I sought to protect them? For us mere mortals, to love was to fear. A border represented both passions.
It was out of love that I allowed Tanja to follow me this morning, skipping behind me, decapitating wildflowers with a stick. She’d woken early, and I had no reason to deny her. We would stroll along the edge of the dawn-lit forest, and then my wife, Mila, would join us to climb the hill to church. Mila and I had raised Tanja to respect the border, but she was curious—as any child would be. Had I feared for her more, I might have anticipated trouble.
Today, two dead men hung by the neck from a tree near the fence. I pulled Tanja to my chest to hide her face, but she squirmed to look.
The crows had been at them, but Tanja recognized them. “Those are the strangers who came through, three nights ago.” She was unruffled. Fear didn’t come naturally to this girl. Was it my fault for not teaching her? Some things ought to be feared.
“Poachers,” I said. We had warned the men. “This is Imp”—I corrected myself—“Forest Folk justice. Stay on this side of the fence, child. Look away.”
Tanja did no such thing. I watched her hands close on the iron bars as she scampered up and over the fence. Panic seized me as I hauled myself over, imagining her running into the trees before my feet touched the ground. The forest had a wild beauty, just like my daughter. I thought it might call to her.
Coming or going?
To love is also to keep secrets.
But she only waited, her head tilted back, watching the dead men swing gently in the breeze.
Like the fence, the head of my spear was cold iron, its tip hammered with two bladed edges. I’d kept it sharp as it had been ten years ago, when we’d won this border. I sawed at the ropes, but only succeeded at making the dead men swing wider.
Before I could shout “No, girl!” Tanja seized one of them by the legs to hold him steady. She grinned, pleased to help. I sighed and cut one down, then the other. The men fell, limbs bending as they never could in life.
Tanja helped lay their bodies straight among the wildflowers as though putting her dolls to bed. The pastor said fear was the enemy of love. My daughter had no fear.
I would return after church with a few lads to bury the men in the potter’s field. Before sunset, someone from the village would wrap cakes to leave under the tree, an apology to keep the peace.
Eight years ago, two years after the border was drawn, we had mounted a head on the fence. Our own justice. During the night, the Forest Folk retrieved it and left an offering of an earthen jar of berry wine. I poured it out and smashed the jar.
Coming or going?
We’d kept the peace then. It would hold now.
My daughter had a wild streak. Not disobedience—she did her chores, said her prayers, never ventured into the forest, and came home before sundown. But at festivals she’d tie up her skirts and dance like a fiend. She got into fights with bigger children—and sometimes won. She climbed trees and rooftops. She mimicked the calls of birds and animals. She constantly fidgeted in church. She stole kisses from boys and girls alike. Sometimes she sang in a gibberish tongue, and dogs in the village howled along.
Mila told me it was all natural. Tanja was a spirited child.
A man on the council once told me to rein my daughter in before she ran off with the Imps. I knocked his teeth in. I spent a day in the stocks for that, but Tanja sat at my feet, glowering at passersby, daring them to harass me. None dared. In that way, she was all mine: loyal to family, loyal to a fault.
Still, I often stared at my strange, wondrous little girl, searching for signs of Mila or myself. The refrain of an old, secret fear chanted in my mind.
I'd known I’d marry Mila long before our village waged war against the Forest Folk, to set the border neither people would now cross. It was no grand passion. Our families were friendly, and she was gentle, patient, and kind. That was enough for the likes of me.
When the fighting started, she prayed for me so hard, I could feel her prayers wrap my body like armor. She calmed my temper, even when the nights got hot and fearful. She’d anchored me and probably saved my life. I wondered what I’d done to deserve such devotion. The pastor explained that such things were not earned, like wages, but given, like grace. This was when I began to understand love.
A path wound up the hill, from the farms to church. Mila and I walked hand in hand while Tanja skipped and twirled among the bushes along the way. As we walked, I apologized to my wife. “She put on a brave face, but she’ll have nightmares. Next time I promise I’ll put my foot down against her following me.”
Families from the neighboring farms passed us on the climb. At the edges of my gaze, I couldn’t help but scrutinize their gaits, wondering if they showed a spryness belying their age. What color glinted in their eyes? If they caught me staring and returned a look, I scrutinized that too. Some descended the hill, not going to church. Them, I scrutinized the most. This village held more secrets than mine.
Mila shook her head. Tanja had her mother’s cheekbones and nose, but their mannerisms were so different. “She wants to be fearless, Jerrell. Like her father.”
I was never fearless, I didn’t say. Not at Tanja’s age, and not now. I watched the border, our neighbors, and even my own daughter out of that old, lurking fear. “It isn’t proper for a little girl to see such things.” It was queer for her to handle them so well.
“You have to let her be who she is,” Mila said.
Who she is.
Coming or going?
What choice was there? I loved my daughter. God’s example or no, I simply did.
Eight years ago, soon after Tanja was born, on a chilly and wind-haunted night, I’d heard the nursery window creak open. I had my spear close at hand—it’d been only two years since we’d paid for the border in blood.
The Imp—we called them Imps before the peace gave them the gentler name of “Forest Folk”—crouched on the windowsill above my daughter’s crib. Starlight outlined its squatting shape in profile. Its head swiveled, startled.
Imps, it was said, stole human children, replacing them with their cuckoos. None knew why. Each theory was darker than the next. We’d discovered some in our village, and suspected others. As before, I didn’t hesitate. The Imp had violated the peace. My spear of cold iron ran into its ribs, just under the arm. As it tumbled dead out the window, I saw it held a cuckoo. My bladed spearpoint had sliced into its swaddling.
Our own baby Tanja lay in her crib. I counted her fingers and toes. I held her close and filled my nostrils with her scent. I held her until her warmth melted the ice of my terror.
The head of the Imp, mounted on the border fence, was enough of a message—Mila convinced me to do no more. Too much fear could end the peace. It could start another war, and erase the border. The dead cuckoo looked too much like a human child, so we buried her in the churchyard, iron bands binding the tiny coffin.
Berry wine was left for us by the fence. I smashed the jar. But the peace held.
I replay that scene of violence in my mind, again and again. Was the Imp coming or going? Fear is the enemy of love.
As though he read the worry etched on my face, the pastor’s homily today was on God’s love, which He gives us without condition. It sets the example for how we, in turn, must love one another. Not wages, but grace. Beside me, Mila’s hands were folded in her lap. I laid my hand over them, loving. Tanja, seeing this, put her hand atop mine. The pastor described God’s love in sonorous tones, made resonant by the arched ceiling. Heady incense made the air otherworldly.
My eyes scanned the congregation, the familiar faces, and those less so. Who but God knew what lay behind their eyes?
My gaze locked with another man’s—his name escaped me—who worked on the sheep farm on the other side of the hill. I hadn’t shied away from someone’s stare since before the war. Neither, it seemed, had this fellow. So. What are you really? we asked each other without words. In the coils of perfumed smoke, I found myself wondering how he saw me, a near-stranger with a habitual glower on his face, eyes darting in suspicion and fear even as the pastor spoke about love. Through him, I saw myself, and I had to chuckle. Across the room, the man grinned back, abashed. No doubt a mirror to my own face.
I was born here, in this village by the forest, before we raised the fence. Most of us were. What earliest memories did any of us have, but of the loving parents who raised us, and the neighbors who helped us thrive? Truth is a story told to us by those we trust, and that we soon come to tell ourselves, and those who trust us. What point was there in letting doubt tangle those threads?
Tanja released my hand and squirmed in the pew, making ghastly faces at the pastor.
Mila sat so still, and breathed so slowly, I suspected she may have fallen asleep.
The man from the other side of the hill checked on his own wife and boys.
I could never love with God’s breadth, perfection, and absence of fear. But every morning I chose to love the family and village I had. There were secret histories and lineages here I would never know. I couldn’t foresee who my daughter truly was, until she became it. I could never be certain if the Imp I’d killed eight years ago was coming or going. All that was left to me was to love with as much grace as I could. Maybe, to God, that was all that mattered.
Rajiv Moté is a software professional and writer living in Chicago with his wife, daughter, and a tiny dog. His stories appear in Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Diabolical Plots, Reckoning, and other publications, and are catalogued at https://rajivmote.wordpress.com/published/. He scrapes off excess words on BlueSky at @rajivmote.bsky.social.
Author’s note: “My writing group, the Codex Writers, offered a writing prompt: ‘What are you afraid to know? Are you afraid for yourself, for a friend, or someone else? Why?’ It made me think about how our identities, as individuals and communities, are based on stories we tell ourselves. The scariest secret is one that undermines how we see ourselves and our loved ones. Can we transcend that threat? Can choosing our story be a moral act?”
“We Must Love as God Love” by Rajiv Moté. Copyright © 2026 by Rajiv Moté. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
Support Mysterion on Patreon!
Comments
Post a Comment
We moderate comments. Please be patient.