back / next / Sarcon’s Son 14
“Dear Me!” Tara says, peering over the side of Her lotus throne. It floats on a cloud, Her own celestial glass-bottomed boat. A window is set into the frothy white billows through which She may watch the mundane world below. “Gracious Goddess, look at that. You are so right. Geological calamity. Biological cataclysm.”
Everything on the planet’s surface is tumbled and smashed together, an unholy mess.
Pity fills Tara’s voice. “Ah! That sentient beings must suffer so!” The spectacle activates Her sympathetic autonomic nervous system and stimulates it to release a torrent of Compassion particles. They pop out of Tara, warm and sticky, clumping into perfumed bundles that gravity pulls downward. Compassion showers the distraught planet.
“They’ll get over it,” says the Virgin. “Mortals always do.”
St. Ursula stands there, dumb-struck. Still clutched to her budding breasts is the unruly imp. Her eyes are wide. Her mouth sags. She is young enough to remember life. To remember pain. She stares and stares at the Virgin. “Why, You don’t care a whit,” she says, hesitant. Then with fervor, “You don’t care.” She shudders. “And You,” she hisses at Tara, “You gave the order. You stopped the World. Now You feel sorry for It?”
All Heaven turns to look at the martyred girl.
“Just wait!” She is weeping with indignation. “Just wait till Lord Jesus gets here! I’ll tell him. Heathen chants. Savage dances. Oriental magic. Our borders overrun with the newly dead.”
“Well isn’t she the bold little poppet,” laughs the Virgin, still muzzy with buddha-bliss.
Sarconsson sees his chance. He hollers:
“You said it, Holy Mum! Boil-brained bogey she is. Scut-butt blowfly. Fool-born, folly-fallen fen-sucker.”
Ursula holds up the imp and shakes him like a rug. “He! This one! He is responsible. It all goes back to him.” The over-grown lunk of a girl-Saint lets go one hand. She points at Tara. “And, and, and … YOU are responsible. Red, wretched demon. Put some clothes on. Prancing around half-naked where we can see Your … Your …” Ursula pauses, whispers, “… boobies.”
“Titillating titties!”
Sarconsson yells and flaps his wings in a mad effort to pull free. From beneath his armpit Love’s broken arrow falls away, clatters on the ground. The imp snatches it up and hides it again.
“Oh, Heavens to Betsy, not that mammary nonsense,” says our Virgin Mother. “Jesu’s New Gospel of Nasty. What is His problem with a healthy set of paps? He was just fine sucking on Mine when He needed them.”
“I am called!” A re-greening Tara raises her arms. Only She hears the summons. Her serene face brims with moral excellence. “The great Sangha of Buddhas and Bodhisattvas is mustering. A world of woe cries out to Us.” Her lotus vehicle rises up, buoyant, bearing Green Tara away into the aether. She cries farewell. “How sublime Our dedication to sorrowing mortals. How boundless their need.”
“How doomed their sorry asses,” says the Virgin. “Miserable chumps. Mortals have a terrible lot. Really they do. But what’s compassion going to fix?” The Virgin looks thoughtful, even sad, like She wishes the World other than what It is. “Might as well sprinkle faery dust. Tara means well.”
In Heaven’s aery dome two traveling thrones pass each other like two great sky ships. Tara heads back to Her Buddha realm and the Virgin’s first born approaches. Wherever Lord Jesus goes He does it aboard His rigid, five-walled flying compartment, a hollow cube equipped inside with pediments, banners, jeweled dais, heraldic animals, obsequious attendants. It hovers just above the flower field. The engine blowers mangle more daffodils.
Saints fall on their faces in adoration. A strangled squeak is heard as Ursula prostrates herself on top of Sarconsson.
Cornumsdotter sneaks up to the Saint’s Mighty Behind. The imp hisses to her smothered boyfriend:
“He’s here! Our mission! Remember the boot? The arrow? Harum-scarum?”
From within the flying cubical The Lord speaks. His Holy Face is stormy. “What is happening here, Mother? It’s My brand-new turn to rule and suddenly things start falling off the World. Mortals shrieking bloody murder and clogging the prayer channels. Churches pancaking. This is Jude’s doing, I know it. He ruins the World to spite Me. To humiliate Me.”
“Leave Your Brother out of this,” The Virgin says, Her voice sounding tired.
“Why? So You can cover for Him? The Little Prick spoils everything of Mine.”
Virgin Mom gives Him the hairy eyeball. “Hush! Stop it. Stop talking. You lose throne privileges for a month if you say one more word. One. More. Word.”
“One. More. Word,” the Lord jeers. “There. I said it. What are You going to do about it? Michael! Michael! Get your bougie self over here. Tell Mother how you had to stuff Jude inside earth when it came time for us to switch. How you had to stomp on His fingers and push Him down there because He wouldn’t go like He was supposed to. It was disgraceful.”
St. Michael creeps up and kneels among spring blooms. The Archangel looks distinctly uncomfortable, having no desire to get between the Boss and Her Son.
“Did you really?” the Virgin asks, astonished. “Step on his hands?”
St. Michael shrugs. “Jude’s a spirited lad. Always has been.”