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St. Ursula meanwhile is face down and rump up, preoccupied with praise. The imp wriggles free of her embrace. He rolls out from under and gasps, “Saint suck us a ruckus.”
“Save my soul,” Ursula begs. She creeps scorpion-like to her Lord’s bare foot, puts forth one hand and pinches His hem. “Save my soul. Save my soul.”
Good Lord Jesus glances down, His manner distracted. “You’re saved, girl. You made it. Run long, now. Shoo.”
“Save my soul, save my soul,” comes a muffled echo from the other saints, their faces planted in garden dirt.
“What botheration is this?” says a baffled Virgin Mother.
The Heavenly Host sings with gusto:
Save my soul!
Save my soul!
Save my soul!
“Regime change,” says Lord Jesus. A haloed lamb appears supported on His right forearm. “New doctrine. Mortals love it. All they need is pledge a loyalty oath. Instant ticket to Heaven. Mortals love telling each other they’re saved.”
Cornumsdotter is so excited her voice squeaks. “Save that sole in a casserole!”
A cranky looking leopard appears on Lord Jesus’ left forearm and glowers at the lamb. “The old ways are tedious. Study, study, study. Prayer, prayer, prayer. Apprenticeship. Initiation. Residency. Blah. Blah. Blah. Old-school. Elitist. Screw the gurus and the gate-keepers. KISS. I’m saving them all. Well, the ones who pledge.”
Our Virgin Mother puckers her Holy Mouth, wrinkles her Holy Forehead. “Where will we put them?”
“In a mixing bowl,” hisses Cornumsdotter into her boyfriend’s ear. "