back / next / Sarcon’s Son 6
It’s hard to be assertive while one’s ears are ringing, one’s eyes blinded, one’s tender abdomen and wings pressed against metal threads of carpet. Sarconsson does his best. He plucks up from his blustery guts every last gleaning of fury and wrath, bundles them, and blows their madness into his voice. He bellows; he roars:
“Where wast Thou, Lord Judas, when our Windy Fathers didst blow Their first breath across this newborn World? Declare, if Thou hast understanding. Where wast Thou when Primal Winds didst form Their breath into an aery orb? Didst bind that gaseous globe around our planet? Didst split apart earth from sky and set heav’n’s boundary?”
globes within hollow globes
“Now We hear the mortal,” says Love. A mildly spoken statement, yet its force flattens the imps as would the sun’s gravity.
With heroic effort Cornumsdotter tilts her head, utters in a hoarse voice, “I’m proud of you, Sarconsson.”
The imp’s heart warms. He manages one final blast:
“Where wast thou, Lord Judas, when West Wind sired us?”
“Actually,” gasps Cornumsdotter, “South Wind’s my daddy.”
Her correction is lost beneath the thunder of divine conversation.
“The cheek of it,” protests Lord Judas. “The pompous little shit. Is this vermin trying to boast? Daring to say it’s older than I am? Jumping Jesus, the bugge is a mortal. I’m going to squish it.”
Love shrugs. “Winds begot the first imps back when Primitives roamed the Deep. Eras before hominins stood up and walked. It’s possible the bugge speaks truly and is Your senior.”
“A bag of green goo. My elder?”
“Face it, Jude. You and Brother Jesu are infants when measured against the hoary old World.”
“The World, yes,” Lord Judas says with dignity. “But not a mortal. The thing is going to die. The thing is going to rot, for Christ’s sake.”
Love is amused, which lifts Their mood. They visit Lord Judas every Age or so for this very reason. There’s something about His grumpy oppositional nature that Love finds entertaining, even reassuring, and so little entertains after 13.8 billion years.
Love trolls Him. “All Your kind, Immortals of the Book — You are unimaginable before hominins invented You.”
“Invented Me!” Lord Judas is aghast. “Invented me! I am reborn each Age of the Virgin Mother, She who is the Great Mother. Talk like that — She’ll pull your ears and banish you to timeout.”
“And We will go meekly when She sends Us,” Love says, folding Their Everlasting Hands. “We have utmost respect for the fierce and magnificent Mother.”
Jude knows this is true, and also that Love is having him on. Love loves to get Him flustered. He calms Himself, then says, “So this plucky fucker is absurdly old. Let’s call up Your sibling. See what They have to say. See how much longer the bugge lasts with Them in the room.”
By “sibling,” He is, of course, referring to Love’s Primal Twin who is Death.
Love sits upright, puts aside Their quiver. “Now, friend Judas. We are not going to kill it. We are going to use it for a task.” They look down upon the corporeal form They are inhabiting for this visit. “Adjustments are in order. Divine Downscaling. Mortal Upscaling. We require conversation with this curious little being, and Our present aspect is too grand for its nature to tolerate. We will blow it to smithereens.”
Even as Love states the obvious, the two imps convulse and quake. Blood trickles from impish ears.
Lord Judas spits on them. “Let the bastards be smithereened. The Virgin whelped and sacrificed Me at least three times before this go-round. Perhaps more. I forget. Ages blur, what with the switching up top and down below.” Lord Judas counts on His fingers. “Cain and Able. Hunahpu and Xbalanque. Gilgamesh and Enkidu. Romulus and Remus. Hah. Four I recall without breaking a sweat.”
Lord Judas is babbling. Love puts forth Their hand and Downscales Him so He looks like a puppet of Himself.
Lord Judas shouts but His voice is muffled. “You don’t get to do that! Not fair! You’re in My Kingdom!”
Without comment, Love Downscales Themself to a mere godly state. Then, with precise care the Primal Immortal puts forth Their hand over the writhing mortals and administers one electron’s worth of charge to scale up the imps. Love is setting everyone on a somewhat level plain.
“Whoa!” hollers Sarconsson, remade, and bolts to his feet. “Whoa! Holy double-dick duck!” His wings sparkle. His blood churns. An enormous erection juts from his loins. “I’m so horny, I could fuck the crack of dawn!”
Cornumsdotter feels equally refreshed but is more circumspect. She winks at Lord Judas, which amplifies his pissed-off state.