Her oafish feet trample plants. Her square hands hold out for all to see her prisoner — a squirming, squealing, bat-winged imp.
Sarconsson is screeching curses.
“Stop, stop, stop, you stupid girl!” yells the Virgin.
But St. Ursula is not at all a stupid girl. She simply is oblivious — to manners, social niceties, hints, and facial cues. She’s a hardy girl, solid as an anvil, still a girl in Sainthood, because she died age twelve when the Huns chopped off her head along with the heads of her 11,000 virgins. That’s a lot of heads. They are preserved, lined up like spare parts in a warehouse, stored on eleven hundred free standing shelves — ten heads to a shelf — in a Heavenly basilica that’s seen better days but still attracts tourists. The disembodied girls offer advice to the lovelorn for a modest donation. Mostly, they chatter among themselves, teasing and tale-telling as children do, surrounded by their maidenly bones* all sorted and displayed, mounted up the walls in clever tessellations. That’s a lot of bones.
Poor, zealous Ursula — so sure, so certain. She knows deep in those chaste bones that she is right, forever in the right. Yet, Omnipotent Fury is about to squash her flatter than the daffodils.
Poor, maddened Virgin — She who is Almighty Queen of Heaven, Mother of Gods, Holy Wisdom. Yet, here She stands, helpless to keep an idiot out of Her garden.
Tara sees all. Being a savior deity, She is moved to Save the Day.
She color-shifts into the ruddy red of action and leaps into Her Heroic manifestation. Tara leaps onto the the lotus throne that always floats conveniently near a traveling Buddha. Her mighty arms reach up into the aether of Heaven’s atmosphere where Tara delves among the spirits there, visible and invisible. What a busy place is Heaven’s sky! Her blood-red hands snatch from out of thin air those trouble-making triplets: Past, Present, Future. See Her juggle the trio until their eyes rattle, their joints clatter, until from out of their corners and hidden places there tumbles the greatest grifter of all, Master Time. He falls onto the handy sun disc Tara whips out of her pocket. It’s an excellent dance surface for when Her wrathful self feels the need to trample something.
Red Tara flexes thighs, stomps feet, and Master Time crunches like a beetle beneath Her weight. The world halts. Silence. Stillness. Breathlessness.
Then — one movement, one sound — Heroic Tara dancing to the beat of Her own chanting voice as it drones one hundred eight repetitions of the Heart mantra:
गते गते पार गते पार संगते बोधि स्वाहा
GAH TAY GAH TAY PAH RAH GAH TAY PAH RAH SAHM GAH TAY BO DHI SWAH HA
Zoom out for the big picture. Planet Earth — that stony she-beast of a wheel — stops turning.
She hangs, suspended in the ropy dark matter* of space.
Quickly! Back to Heaven, where invisible choirs now sing, where spiraling voices raise a joyful noise …
all shall be well
and all shall be well
and all manner of thing shall be well
… because — Holy of Holies! — Our Lady of Perpetual Grace is smiling! The Madonna of Magnificent Mercies, calm as a summer afternoon, raises up Her Hallowed Hands in blessing.
The firmament vibrates with song.
O HOLY Womb! O sacred Breast!
Pure couch, where Jesu loves to rest!
The Virgin Most Prudent & Cause of Our Joy issues a proclamation:
“Greater Love hath no Lady, than that She Stop the World for Her Friend.”
The world is indeed stopped. Master Time, laid out on the sun disk, appears crushed, but he’s known to be a resilient fellow. As long as anyone can remember, celestials have debated whether or not Master Time might, in fact, be an Immortal. Even as Tara’s jeweled toenails shred his bones, he abides patiently — a fish who understands catch-and-release.
The Awe-Full Virgin Mother adds to Her statement:
“Your Buddha-heart tames My unruly passions.”
The unseen choir tears it up:
Virgin of Virgins!
Terror of the treacherous!
Treasure of the faithful!
Eye of prophets!
Stone of martyrs!
The Virgin gestures to lower the volume, clears her throat. “Now, girlfriend, let’s release Master Time. My peripheral vision is picking up reports of earthquakes and tidal waves. The world needs to be spinning again.” She waves dismissively toward Ursula. “That worthless Saint? I promise, cross my heart, not to eviscerate her.”
Tara bows. She lifts one red foot.
Master Time, badly bent, scuttles away. The world shudders. It lurches. It recommences. The world is back to spinning. Oceans lie down in their beds and winds rise up to their courses.
Angel choristers become visible and fill Heaven’s air with their gauzy gowns, their feathery wings. Sarconsson farts and grins.