Heaven
“Michael! Did you see what just happened?” Her four arms atwirl and her avocado-green skin almost glowing, Parvati turned to her companion.
The archangel let his wings fall to his side. “Boyhood hijinks, nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Not at all!” Parvati insisted. “The way little Bobby named his chicken—the way he connected with the creature—it was magnificent!”
Michael shrugged, initiating the downward zigzag flight of a stray feather. “We don’t exactly condone theft, do we?”
“Now Michael, please—no need to go all British on me. Surely you can see the boy was under duress. What choice did he have? If he were to pass through the initiation?”
It was always like this with She of the Mountain: all compassion, no discipline. Gaudy in clothing and speech both, strutting about in her red sari as though ready to burst into dance at the least excuse. No sense of decorum at all.
Parvati waved a green finger at the archangel. “He refused to eat Charlie. That must count for something!”
“That’s not exactly what he said.”
“You cannot eat what you have just christened.”
The two deities sighed, though for different reasons, and the sky which surrounded them heaved in concert, expanding out, then back in. All their multi-dimensional universe responded in perfect synchronicity.
With a sinuous wave of her hand, Parvati made the landscape cross-fade into a mountainous vista brimming with conifer-filled valleys and the scent of red cedar.
Michael looked on glumly. “But why pick him? And why have you brought us to this utterly depressing wilderness?”
Parvati waved another hand, this time shaping the necessary molecules into an approximately cubical piece of diorite, perfectly contoured to receive her multiple shapely limbs. Upon it she sat and mused, “A mere whim, I suppose. But is not the universe itself a mere whim?”
Michael raised his eyebrows. This was another thing about Parvati: at the drop of a hat, she was likely to become completely esoteric. Indeed she had once dared ask him how many angels could fit on a Christian pinhead.
Parvati nodded thoughtfully. “Why here, you ask? Hmph, good question . . . I have a connection with the mountains, as you know.” She smiled, looking at the snow-covered peaks. “And while it’s true what we see before us are not the Himalayas—pipsqueaks by comparison—still these peaks have a charm all their own, wouldn't you agree?” Parvati put her upper right hand to her chin. “Yet beyond these mere tectonic trifles . . . there is something about Mr. Sproule himself.”
“The fact that he’s a thief?”
“He is not, Michael. Of this I am convinced.”
“A murderer?”
“Now this is an accusation much in dispute, and really the reason for this entire endeavour.”
“Which is?”
“To examine the life of the poor man, clearly.” Parvati rose to her feet, extended each of her four arms in an act of enthusiastic pronouncement: “The Triumphs and Tribulations of one Robert E. Sproule!” She dropped her arms. “In the end, I fear, a most unfortunate man.”
“And you’re willing to do this examination without prejudice?”
“Of course.”
“With no pre-conceptions?”
Parvati sat back down. “Let the facts speak for themselves.”
It was Michael’s turn to strut. He summoned into being a medieval-looking oak chair, not quite a throne (which would be in poor taste obviously) but it was well-crafted, with carvings of cherubs on the back rest, and a frilled blue silk cushion on its seat. Michael sat and wrapped his wings snugly around the back of the chair. A low gravity environment had much to recommend it, but one could not deny that the Creator had stumbled upon one of his greatest ideas with the invention of physical matter. Michael allowed a smile to rise to his lips as he positioned himself precisely on his chair. There was nothing quite like the feel of a truly comfortable chair. He turned to the Hindu goddess of Fertility, Love and God knows what else. “I’m ready.”
Parvati rubbed together two of her hands, settled the other two on her hips. “No need to dawdle then; let’s get right to it: the moment of the poor soul’s greatest torment. His Garden of Gethsemane, you might say.”
The archangel rolled his eyes. “No, Parvati, I wouldn’t say.”
Smiling, Parvati raised her eyebrows. “Just a turn of phrase.”
Michael remained un-amused.
“All right then, Mr. Archangel, without further ado, let us proceed to Victoria, British Columbia—Tilly tally, God save the Queen, and all that.”
“Time?”
“What? Oh yes, context, of course—sorry. . . . It is, as you might say, the Year of Our Lord, 1886. October 27th by the Julian calendar. There is a chill in the air.”
**
Through time and space and layers of reality, like a plummeting falcon, their vision descends, till they are there. In the very room with the man. Flies on the wall. Good and bad angels on Robert Sproule’s shoulder, ready to share his innermost thoughts.
**
“Now, Mr. Archangel, there’s a scene, wouldn’t you say? Almost Dickensian. The quivering light of two small candles, and Mr. Sproule gazing gloomily at his meagre surroundings: bed, table, two chairs, wash basin and . . . what is that exactly?” Parvati was gazing at a motionless lump filling a chair opposite her protagonist.
“It’s a priest, Parvati.”
“An acquaintance of yours?”
“Some day . . . if all goes well.” Michael pointed down, though it was not down in the human sense, for Heaven is filled with more dimensions than the human imagination can conjure. For now it is enough to say, with his finger, the archangel indicated the planet known locally as Earth. “Now . . . shall we?”
Gleefully Parvati clapped her hands, fully aware of the unnecessary theatricality of the gesture. “Let the next chapter unfold! Introducing little Bobby, now forty-three years older in the company of a most unimposing, sleeping priest!”
“Michael! Did you see what just happened?” Her four arms atwirl and her avocado-green skin almost glowing, Parvati turned to her companion.
The archangel let his wings fall to his side. “Boyhood hijinks, nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Not at all!” Parvati insisted. “The way little Bobby named his chicken—the way he connected with the creature—it was magnificent!”
Michael shrugged, initiating the downward zigzag flight of a stray feather. “We don’t exactly condone theft, do we?”
“Now Michael, please—no need to go all British on me. Surely you can see the boy was under duress. What choice did he have? If he were to pass through the initiation?”
It was always like this with She of the Mountain: all compassion, no discipline. Gaudy in clothing and speech both, strutting about in her red sari as though ready to burst into dance at the least excuse. No sense of decorum at all.
Parvati waved a green finger at the archangel. “He refused to eat Charlie. That must count for something!”
“That’s not exactly what he said.”
“You cannot eat what you have just christened.”
The two deities sighed, though for different reasons, and the sky which surrounded them heaved in concert, expanding out, then back in. All their multi-dimensional universe responded in perfect synchronicity.
With a sinuous wave of her hand, Parvati made the landscape cross-fade into a mountainous vista brimming with conifer-filled valleys and the scent of red cedar.
Michael looked on glumly. “But why pick him? And why have you brought us to this utterly depressing wilderness?”
Parvati waved another hand, this time shaping the necessary molecules into an approximately cubical piece of diorite, perfectly contoured to receive her multiple shapely limbs. Upon it she sat and mused, “A mere whim, I suppose. But is not the universe itself a mere whim?”
Michael raised his eyebrows. This was another thing about Parvati: at the drop of a hat, she was likely to become completely esoteric. Indeed she had once dared ask him how many angels could fit on a Christian pinhead.
Parvati nodded thoughtfully. “Why here, you ask? Hmph, good question . . . I have a connection with the mountains, as you know.” She smiled, looking at the snow-covered peaks. “And while it’s true what we see before us are not the Himalayas—pipsqueaks by comparison—still these peaks have a charm all their own, wouldn't you agree?” Parvati put her upper right hand to her chin. “Yet beyond these mere tectonic trifles . . . there is something about Mr. Sproule himself.”
“The fact that he’s a thief?”
“He is not, Michael. Of this I am convinced.”
“A murderer?”
“Now this is an accusation much in dispute, and really the reason for this entire endeavour.”
“Which is?”
“To examine the life of the poor man, clearly.” Parvati rose to her feet, extended each of her four arms in an act of enthusiastic pronouncement: “The Triumphs and Tribulations of one Robert E. Sproule!” She dropped her arms. “In the end, I fear, a most unfortunate man.”
“And you’re willing to do this examination without prejudice?”
“Of course.”
“With no pre-conceptions?”
Parvati sat back down. “Let the facts speak for themselves.”
It was Michael’s turn to strut. He summoned into being a medieval-looking oak chair, not quite a throne (which would be in poor taste obviously) but it was well-crafted, with carvings of cherubs on the back rest, and a frilled blue silk cushion on its seat. Michael sat and wrapped his wings snugly around the back of the chair. A low gravity environment had much to recommend it, but one could not deny that the Creator had stumbled upon one of his greatest ideas with the invention of physical matter. Michael allowed a smile to rise to his lips as he positioned himself precisely on his chair. There was nothing quite like the feel of a truly comfortable chair. He turned to the Hindu goddess of Fertility, Love and God knows what else. “I’m ready.”
Parvati rubbed together two of her hands, settled the other two on her hips. “No need to dawdle then; let’s get right to it: the moment of the poor soul’s greatest torment. His Garden of Gethsemane, you might say.”
The archangel rolled his eyes. “No, Parvati, I wouldn’t say.”
Smiling, Parvati raised her eyebrows. “Just a turn of phrase.”
Michael remained un-amused.
“All right then, Mr. Archangel, without further ado, let us proceed to Victoria, British Columbia—Tilly tally, God save the Queen, and all that.”
“Time?”
“What? Oh yes, context, of course—sorry. . . . It is, as you might say, the Year of Our Lord, 1886. October 27th by the Julian calendar. There is a chill in the air.”
**
Through time and space and layers of reality, like a plummeting falcon, their vision descends, till they are there. In the very room with the man. Flies on the wall. Good and bad angels on Robert Sproule’s shoulder, ready to share his innermost thoughts.
**
“Now, Mr. Archangel, there’s a scene, wouldn’t you say? Almost Dickensian. The quivering light of two small candles, and Mr. Sproule gazing gloomily at his meagre surroundings: bed, table, two chairs, wash basin and . . . what is that exactly?” Parvati was gazing at a motionless lump filling a chair opposite her protagonist.
“It’s a priest, Parvati.”
“An acquaintance of yours?”
“Some day . . . if all goes well.” Michael pointed down, though it was not down in the human sense, for Heaven is filled with more dimensions than the human imagination can conjure. For now it is enough to say, with his finger, the archangel indicated the planet known locally as Earth. “Now . . . shall we?”
Gleefully Parvati clapped her hands, fully aware of the unnecessary theatricality of the gesture. “Let the next chapter unfold! Introducing little Bobby, now forty-three years older in the company of a most unimposing, sleeping priest!”
