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.”
Pity fills Her voice. “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.”
“You don’t care a whit,” says St. Ursula, standing as tall as a child-Saint can.
All Heaven turns to look at her. Clutched to her breast is the unruly imp.
She is weeping with indignation. “You don’t care a whit for what’s happening here. Security breaches. Heathen chants and dances. Oriental magic. Mass casualties. Our borders overrun with the newly dead.”
“Well aren’t you 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 silliness,” 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,” says a re-greening Tara. Only She hears the summons, and 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 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 faces in adoration.
The Lord’s Own face is stormy. “What is happening here, Mother? My brand-new turn to rule and things start falling off the earth. Mortals shrieking bloody murder. Clogging the prayer channels. Churches pancaking. 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 a bit tiredly.
“Why? So You can cover for Him? The little prick spoils everything of Mine.”
“Say one more word, one more word, and I’ll take away Your throne privileges for a month.”
“One more word, Mother. There. I said it. What are You going to do about it? Let’s see You do something. Michael! Michael, get your winged self over here. Tell Mother how you had to stuff Jude inside the Earth this time the Age changed, 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 during this hullabaloo and kneels 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. “Jude’s a spirited lad. Always has been.”