back / next / Sarcon’s Son 6
It’s hard to be assertive with one’s ears ringing, one’s eyes blinded, with one’s tender abdomen and wings pressed against metal threads of carpet. Sarconsson does his best. He plucks up from his blustery guts every gleaning of indignation and outrage, bundles them, and blows their madness into his voice. He bellows; he roars:
“Where wast thou, Lord Judas, when first our Windy Fathers didst wend and wind the newborn World? Where wast thou when Primal Winds didst blow into being an aery orb? Didst bind that gaseous globe about our planet, to split apart earth from sky and set heav’n’s bound’ry?”
i“Now We hear the mortal,” says Love and nods approvingly. A mildly spoken statement, yet its force flattens the imps as would the sun’s gravity.
With heroic effort Cornumsdotter tilts her head, utters in a hoarse voice, “I’m proud of you, Sarconsson.”
The imp’s heart warms. He manages one final blast:
“Where wast thou, Lord Judas, when West Wind sired us?”
“Actually,” gasps Cornumsdotter, “South Wind’s my daddy.”
Her correction is lost beneath the thunder of divine conversation.
“The cheek of it,” protests Lord Judas. “Is this mewling thing trying to boast? Daring to suggest it’s older than I am? Jumping Jesus, it’s a mortal. A clot of meat. I’m going to squish it.”
Love shrugs. “Winds begot the first imp back when Primitives roamed the Deep. Eras before hominins stood up and walked. It’s possible the bugge speaks truly and is your senior.”
“A sack of worm-food.” Lord Judas can’t let it go. “A weeping sore on the ass of a syphilitic goat.”
“Face it, Jude. You and Brother Jesu are infants when measured against the hoary old World. All Your kind, Immortals-of-the-Book. You are unimaginable before hominins come to fancy themselves land-locked godlings.”
“But, a mortal! Come into My court and flaunt its age. Piss poor judgment, if You ask Me. The thing is going to die. The thing is going to rot, for Christ’s sake. Let’s make it happen now. Call in Your sibling and see how much longer the plucky fucker can last.”
By “sibling,” He is, of course, referring to Love’s Primal twin who is Death.
Love sits upright, puts aside Their quiver, and examines the corporeal form They inhabit. “Adjustments are in order, Jude. Divine Downscaling. We require conversational intercourse with this curious mortal, and Our present aspect is too grand for its nature to tolerate. We will blow it to smithereens.”
Even as Love states the obvious, the two imps convulse and quake. Blood trickles from impish ears.
“Let the bastard be smithereened. How dare it? The Virgin whelped and sacrificed Me at least three times before this go-round. Perhaps more. I forget. Ages blur, what with the switching up top and down below.” Lord Judas counts on His fingers. “Cain and Able. Hunahpu and Xbalanque. Gilgamesh and Enkidu. Romulus and Remus. Hah. Four I recall without breaking a sweat.”
Lord Judas is babbling. Love puts forth Their hand and Downscales Him.
Lord Judas shouts, His voice muffled, “You don’t get to do that. You’re in My Kingdom.”
Without comment, Love Downscales Themself. Then, with precise care the Primal Immortal puts forth Their hand over the writhing mortals and administers one electron’s worth of charge to scale up the imps. Love is setting everyone on a somewhat level plain.
“Whoa!” hollers Sarconsson, remade, and bolts to his feet. “Whoa! Holy double-dick duck!” His wings sparkle. His blood churns. An enormous erection juts from his loins. “I’m so horny, I could fuck the crack of dawn!”
Cornumsdotter feels equally randy but is more circumspect in showing it. She winks at Lord Judas, which amplifies his pissed state.