Something Terribly Wrong

by Denis Fitzpatrick, © 2013

                                                                    

     There was something different about this place. An event fundamentally different and wrong in this very familiar place. Something hinting at a fundamental imbalance despite appearances. Everything looked physically fine to Him, but still something basic had gone awry. Everything Smelled fine too and He could still Hear the children at home from school for the weekend, playing as heathily as He had always Wished.

     ‘This had better still be Paradise,’ said God, Suspiciously Eyeing the environs of His Familiar Home. He was Quite Serious. ‘Morningstar I Seriously Hope hasn’t learned something I am yet to Know. Morningstar had better not restart That Ancient Feud. There will be consequences.’ God was talking to Himself only because this new threat, or illness, felt world changing, to which He was Responding Similarly out of Character. ‘Christ’s Counsel Methinks is Needed.’

     God took out His Mobile, feeling sin approach closer all over His Hairs while He Dialled Christ’s Number. Christ promptly Answered,

     ‘Hello, Father.’

     ‘Hello, My Son. Something is wrong at Home, something seriously wrong. I need You over Here to Help Identify a possibly deep bane.’

     ‘I know, Father. The cause is within My Home. I have been Considering it for twenty minutes. A very serious cause.’

     ‘What is it?’

     ‘We need to talk in Person. It’s something I think We cannot undo.’

     ‘Well then Get over Here, quick. This sin grows and grows.’

     ‘I’ll be There soon.’

     True to His Word as usual Christ was in His Father’s Allotment of Paradise quickly, Jogging up to His Father. He was dressed in His Usual Shorts, Shirt and Boots, His Hair in a ponytail just for the change. The Beard had Gone centuries ago.

     ‘Well, what is it,’ asked God brusquely. Sin was coursing closer All Over His Hairs.

     ‘That oracle I told you about, the one who was broadcasting that wilful, persistent sinfulness may no longer be countenanced with a simple mumbling of hasty prayer…’ Christ’s Voice caught, hinting at a Sob.

     ‘Yes, My Son, what of him?’

     Christ Gathered Himself. ‘He lays slain at my door. Slain by his own hand.’

     God was Speechless. The oracle, a writer, was now destroyed. He had been steadily, successfully, healing the moral law’s breach, proclaiming that consciously continuing abominations would no longer stand before The Lord, abominations to be atoned with just some easy prayer. Murdered with his own hand; unforgivable. Things could now only get much, much worse.

     ‘How do You know it was by his own hand?’

     ‘He lays in a small lake of bloody crimson from his neck’s carotid arteries, razor in his right hand and a suicide note pinned to his shirt.’

     God remained Speechless, Forlorn. After a few minutes of Mutual Despair and silence He said,

     ‘We had best Look into this, My Son.’

     ‘Yes, Father.’

     They soon Reached Christ’s Allotment of Paradise and There the oracle undoubtedly lay, atop his own bloody defilement. No  neighbours were witness to the slaying as Christ’s Home was Surrounded by a shoulder height Wall. They Read the suicide note: one sentence declaring that he had thus sacrificed himself willingly, martyrdom being the natural depths of his mission.

     ‘Are You sure it is the oracle You envisioned?’

     ‘Perfectly Sure, Father. I Will always Remember his face.’

     ‘We had better Take him inside. Clean up as best We can.’

     The oracle was tenderly borne within Christ’s Home, the filthy carnage cleaned in thirty minutes. So easily destroyed. Impossible to Recreate. The oracle was laid out on Christ’s Bed and Both He and God soon Arrived at the conclusion that he was irreplaceable. Healing the moral law’s breach was endemic to this prophet’s very core, the purpose of his creation, just as Christ’s Purpose was elementally to bring us all eternal life. Eternal damnation now lay ahead, God Having no Doubt that the steadily growing corruption of facile prayer forgiving continuous outrages of every sort would lead even unto Them. But They Both Had to Discuss the matter Further and so Entered the Living Room.

     They had no real Choice: the oracle must be resurrected despite his unforgivable end. For the first time in eternity God had to Forgive someone who had vehemently thrown away His gift of life.

     ‘But We may not be able to revive him,’ said God. ‘He has exercised his free will to its utmost summit.’

     ‘What will happen if he can’t be revived after an Attempt?’

     ‘I don’t know, My Son. Reality could well implode in an instant, either of Our Failure at his resurrection causing a fundamental trauma in life’s structures. Or We may well just have to await life’s eventual necrosis with his passing.’

     ‘Would it reach Us?”

     ‘Assuredly. The moral law will even decay Our Foundations.’

     ‘We Must Revive him, Father. It is the lesser of two evils. If We Try and Fail then so be it. At least it might be a quicker Obliteration. But We Have to Try, Have to Grab howsoever slim a chance to Safeguard Reality and all life. If We don’t Try then We have no Hope.’

     God Pondered a moment. His Son was right, They had to Try. If They Didn’t Reality and all life was assuredly doomed. Any chance to prevent this must be Sought, and They could well Succeed.

     ‘We shall Attempt it,’ God declared. ‘But which of Us to Make the Attempt? Thou Art Responsible for eternal life, Your Purpose, whereas I am Ultimately Responsible for Creation entire. To Whom does this fraught burden Fall?’

     ‘We must Choose wisely.’

     ‘We shall have only the Single Attempt.’

     They remained Mute for some minutes, Battling Despair.

     ‘Perhaps Both of Us, Father? Perhaps Our Combined Wills are the Panacea?’

     God anew Felt Hope, the crawling sin closer to All Of His Hairs relaxing, rescinding His mounting Despair.

     ‘Methinks ‘tis the only course.’

     ‘As do I, Father.’

     They then Both Entered Christ’s large Bedroom again, with only a King size Bed, a Bedside Cabinet, a Wardrobe, and now the slain oracle. Placing Their Right Hands upon his butchered arteries, Closing then Their Eyes They Called to him Through Their Touch, Massaging his despair, Forgiving his deep sin this once only.

     Simultaneously They soon Each felt the opened arteries fully heal and Each could Distinctly Hear a deeply terrified wail. A scream that echoed from every star, every planet, and every particle. The mighty, abandoned scream They Absorbed, Screaming too So Very Loudly Within, but Relieving it with Quicker, Deeper and Deeper Breaths.

     The Screaming slowly ebbed off, Their Breathing Forcing it under control. Until it was no more. They Each Removed Their Hands.

     They opened Their Eyes, Both Mildy Sweating.

     The oracle’s head was writhing from side to side, then a deep, desperate and joyous gulp of sweet air and he opened his eyes. They Looked at this awesome gift with Undeniable Concern, Eager to Assist.

     ‘Where am I?’ he asked. He appeared to have simply awoken for the day.

     ‘You’re at a good Samaritan’s. I found you outside My Place,’ answered Christ. ‘Do you remember what happened?’

     ‘No.’

     ‘You were covered in blood when We Found you,’ assisted God.

    ‘Mine?’

     ‘I don’t Think so,’ continued God. ‘We’ve had a Look for any cuts and you’re fine. What’s your name?’

     ‘Elijah. Elijah d’Israeli.’

     ‘A fine name, Elijah,’ extolled God. ‘A noble name indeed.’

    ‘You must have got in a fight, Elijah,’ said Christ. ‘You’re obviously the victor for there is not a scratch on you.’

     ‘I can’t remember a thing, not a thing.’ Elijah appeared to look inwards, turning his head to the left and remembering. ‘I remember having a wine…three wines. Someone with a razor.  Nothing more.’

     ‘Do you drink often, Elijah,’ asked God.

     ‘A tad too much.’

     ‘Do you have a family history of any mental illness?’

     ‘Yes.’

     ‘Well, I Think that and the alcohol have obviously caught up with you. You’re very lucky you won that fight, there’s a lot of blood on you.’

     Elijah surveyed himself. ‘My God, there is a lot! ’

     ‘I’ll Give you some Clothes to change into,’ offered Christ. ‘You might also want to shower.’

     ‘Thanks,’ said Elijah. ‘No more wine for this little black duck!’ They then all laughed and Elijah was able to head into the shower to cleanse himself. Christ’s Clothes, without Underwear, fitted him perfectly and Elijah made a hasty getaway, loathe to accept any more charity.

     ‘Thank you, thank you both. God knows what might have happened if you both hadn’t rescued me.’ Elijah said this just before leaving.

     ‘Bless you, my son,’ said God.

     Elijah then left, memories now returning to him of his self-chosen mission, steadily showing to any who will listen, to any who will not listen, that a simple prayer no longer absolves wilful paedophilia, persistent misogyny, and all unchecked, self-assured abuses.

     ‘Bless you, my son,’ said God when Elijah had turned right onto the main road leading away from Paradise. He then closed the door, smiling.