back / next / Sarcon’s Son 14
“Dear Me,” Tara says, peering over the side of Her lotus throne where She seems to have a skylight or perhaps a reverse periscope — a device that bores through Heaven’s foundation and gives Her an unobstructed view of the mortal world far below. “Gracious Goddess, look at that. You are so right. Geological calamity. Biological cataclysm.”
Her fiery red color drains away. Pity fills Her voice. “Ah! That sentient beings must suffer so!” Tara glows the green of enlightenment.
“Yes,” says the Virgin with great sternness, “and We know who’s responsible for this particular bit of suffering.”
Angels in the sky and Saints in the garden all turn to look at St. Ursula, who clutches to her breast the unruly imp.
Sarconsson sees he has their attention. 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,” howls the over-grown lunk of a girl-Saint, so angry she weeps hot tears that sizzle on her cool, Saintly face. “And, and, and … YOU are responsible.” Ursula lets go of the imp with her right hand so she can point accusingly at the girl-Buddha, for it’s true Tara’s iconography always shows Her to be a nubile age sixteen. “You 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’s left hand. The broken arrow secured under one armpit falls free. He snatches it, hides it again.
The Virgin is too busy rolling Her eyes to notice. “That’s Jesu’s new gospel of nasty. What is His problem with a healthy set of paps? He was just fine sucking on My Sacred Breast when He needed to.”
“I am called,” says Green Tara, erect and alert. “Buddhas and Bodhisattvas are urgently called. A world of woe cries out to us.” The lotus throne rises up, buoyant as a cloud, bearing Tara away. Her voice can be heard as She sails into the aether. “We shower compassion upon suffering mortals. How sublime Our dedication. How boundless their need.”
“How doomed those mortals,” says the Virgin with a grimace. “Miserable chumps. A lot of good compassion will do them. Tara might as well sprinkle faery dust. She 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 luxury cubical equipped with pediments, banners, jeweled dais, heraldic animals, obsequious attendants. It sets down in the flower field, crushing an entirely new section of daffodils.
Lord Jesus disembarks and the Saints fall on their knees in adoration.
“What is happening, Mother? I just got here. I just take over and next you know, the world stops. Things fall off. Mortals shriek bloody murder and clog the prayer channels. This is Jude’s doing, I know it. This is sabotage. What He left me. Ruined the world to spite me. To humiliate me.”
“Leave Your Brother out of this,” The Virgin says.
“Why? So You can cover for Him? The little prick spoils everything of Mine.”
“Say one more word and I’ll take away Your cloud privileges for a month.”
“One more word, Mother. There. I said it. One more word. Michael! Michael, get over here. Tell Mother how you had to stuff Jude inside the Earth this time around, 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 and the Saints creep up during this hullabaloo and stand carefully among the spring blooms. Michael 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. “He’s a spirited lad. Always has been.”