back / next / Sarcon’s Son 14
“Dear Me,” Tara says, peering over the side of Her lotus throne. It floats on a cloud. Set into the frothy white billows is a window through which She may watch the earthly world below, sort of like sailing on a celestial glass-bottomed boat. “Gracious Goddess, look at that. You are so right. Geological calamity. Biological cataclysm.”
Everything on the planet’s surface is tumbled and smashed together. It’s a mess.
Pity fills Tara’s voice. She cries out, “Ah! That sentient beings must suffer so!” The spectacle activates Her sympathetic autonomic nervous system, stimulates it to release a torrent of Compassion particles. They pop out of Tara, warm and sticky, clumping like happy puppies into perfumed bundles of kindness that gravity pulls downward. Compassion showers onto a distraught planet.
“They’ll get over it,” says the Virgin. “Mortals always do.”
St. Ursula stands there, dumb-struck. Clutched to her budding breasts is the unruly imp. Her eyes go wide. She stares and stares at the Virgin. Her mouth sags. “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 so conveniently 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 You let it happen. Security breaches. Heathen chants and dances. Oriental magic. Mass casualties. 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 with wholehearted conviction 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,” yells Sarconsson and flaps his wings in a mad effort to pull free of Ursula. From beneath his hairy armpit Love’s broken arrow falls away, clatters on the ground. The imp snatches it up and hides it again.
“Oh, dearie Me, 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 its virtuous message. “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 a Compassion Convention?” 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 an entirely new section of daffodils.
Saints fall on their faces in adoration. A strangled squeak is heard as Ursula smothers Sarconsson beneath her.
Cornumsdotter sneaks up to the Saint’s Mighty Behind. “He’s here!” the imp hisses to her boyfriend. “Our mission! Remember the boot? The arrow? Harum-scarum? Remember?”
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 the world stops. Things start falling off. Mortals shrieking bloody murder. Clogging the prayer channels. Churches pancaking. This is Jude’s doing, I know it. This is sabotage. Ruined 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? Let’s see You do something. Michael! Michael, get your bougie self over here. Tell Mother how you had to stuff Jude inside the 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 through this hullabaloo 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.”