The Reluctant Jesus: A Satirical Dark Comedy (27 page)

CHAPTER

HEAVEN, OR HQ AS GOD
had affectionately nicknamed it, was not at all how I had expected. We certainly were not standing on a cloud, nor did I see any pearly gates. There were no angels playing harps, nor was Saint Peter checking off names from a scroll.

The first thing I noticed was the sound or lack of it. There was no background noise, not even the sound of a bird or the rustling of a tree dancing in the wind. Bill and I seemed to be standing in a meadow, and the greenness seemed to span for miles. There was the odd rise in the ground that appeared to be small hills. To our left, I would estimate about four miles away, there was a wooded area, most probably an orchard. The sky above was blue, not a cloud filled it, and though we were drenched in sunlight, neither Bill nor I could spot the sun. The temperature was warm, not hot; in fact, if we were on Earth, it would have been the perfect day.

A gentle breeze cooled the air; it felt like we were completely alone. I looked around again, as did Bill. I scanned every horizon, and there seemed to be no structures or sign of any life apart from the grass beneath our feet and the trees to our left.

“Can you see anything?” I asked Bill as we continued to explore optically our new surroundings.

“Nothing. Where are we anyway? Weren’t we approaching Broadway a second ago?” Bill was right. A few seconds ago we were about to crash into the back of either a parked truck or dumpster on Broadway and 45th Street in the back of a crazed cab driver’s taxi. Somehow, and I didn’t know how, it seemed we had been transported to how I always imagined England would have looked in the Middle Ages. As I continued to scan the horizon, I spotted something far away in the distance.

“Over there,” I said and pointed toward what I had seen for Bill’s benefit, “do you see it?” Bill followed my finger in the direction where I pointed. He squinted and moved his head.

“Yeah, I see it. What do you think it is?” he asked. I wasn’t sure; it looked like some sort of structure, possibly a building.

“I don’t know, but I think we should head toward it. There might be a telephone or something,” I suggested. Bill agreed and we headed in that direction, toward the lone structure and the only blot on the landscape.

“Do you think this is Heaven?” asked Bill as we walked toward the unidentified structure far on the horizon.

“I guess so,” I said. “It is a little different than I had imagined it would be, though,” I answered. “This ground, it feels like Earth.” Bill agreed. We were both a little surprised that there hadn’t been anyone to meet us, and we hoped our cab driver had brought us to the right place.

“Hey,” said Bill, “I’ve just had a thought. You don’t think we are dead, do you?”

I explained that God had told me this would be a short visit, and I didn’t believe that we were dead. The thought had crossed my mind; everything had happened extremely quickly. I assured myself that God wouldn’t be so cruel as to take me away from Maggie and my unborn child, not after everything we had been through together. We continued walking for what seemed like miles.

“What time you got?” I asked Bill.

Bill checked his wristwatch. He tapped the face and then held it to his ear. “That’s odd,” he said, “this is a brand new Rolex, but it’s stopped.” It didn’t surprise me that Bill had bought such an ostentatious watch; however, what did surprise me, was that, as my watch, his had also stopped.

“It seems time stands still up here,” I said as Bill continued to shake his wrist in a futile attempt to get his watch ticking again.

“It’s kind of weird, don’t you think?” said Bill. “Us about to meet God and Lucifer—it’s the sort of thing people dream about.” I supposed he was right. “If you could ask one question, just one question of God, and he had to tell you the truth, what would it be?” asked my diminutive friend, the anti-Christ. It was a good question, and not something I had ever thought about before. As we continued on a path toward the structure, I mulled over Bill’s question.

“I am not sure. Probably something like ‘will the life that exists on other planets ever make contact with us?’ or something like that. Why, what would you ask him?” Bill, who had obviously put thought into the subject hence his initial question, rubbed his hand on his chin before he spoke.

“Well, I have actually thought about this a lot. There are several questions I have, but to narrow it down to just one, well, that was not easy. I would love to know if there are going to be androids in the future, and if so, would there be pleasure drones.”

I looked at Bill and screwed up my face. “What on earth is a pleasure drone?” I asked.

“An android, or robot, that is built, designed, and programmed for a human’s sexual pleasure,” said Bill, as if I were mad for not knowing what a pleasure drone was. I nodded, indicating I understood what he meant, even though I didn’t. “But then again, I am pretty sure there will be, so it would be a wasted question.” Bill scratched his head, still thinking. “Another thing I have always wanted to know is why was the air on the planet Vulcan the same as it was on Earth? Why could Kirk breathe on Vulcan? I never understood that.”

“Bill, that’s a wasted question too. It’s not real, it’s science fiction. You could ask any geek freak that.” I realized that Bill was a geek freak or had been. He no longer looked like a geek freak, but he still thought like one.

“Yeah, you’re right, one of the nerds would know. ‘Trekkies’ they call them. I’ll ask one of them next time I am at a costume convention.” I wasn’t sure if Bill understood the irony of his last statement, but I let it pass. “I’ve got it,” said Bill after several more minutes of deep thought, “I have the perfect question for God.”

“Which is?” I asked, intrigued as to what had come to Bill’s brain.

“I would ask him what we are meant to call male ladybugs.” Bill smiled triumphantly. I supposed it was a good question, in a way. I certainly did not know the answer, and I supposed male ladybugs often got offended when people referred to them as ladies. It wouldn’t have been my choice if God gave me the opportunity to ask just one question. Maybe Bill’s brain had been exposed to too much champagne, and maybe the late nights and partying had fried his brain. Who knew?

Luckily, my conversation with Bill was cut short, as the object that we were heading toward began to form a shape, and we could just about make out what it was.

“Is that what I think is?” asked Bill.

“If you think that it is a castle, then yes, I do believe it is what you think,” I replied as I stopped in my tracks.

I could clearly make out four turrets that seemed to join each of the four walls, and there also appeared to be, though we were still some distance away, a larger building with a spire or other tall turret-like object protruding from its middle, which was located within the castle walls.

“If my memory serves me well,” said Bill “I would say that is definitely a twelfth-century castle, typical of the kind found in medieval Europe. From what I can make out, it seems to be a Motte and Bailey type, commonly found in England.” I was glad Bill was a geek. “If you look closely, you will see the building in the center is actually a manor house or a great hall, which often housed the chapel, and is probably the reason for the spire.” I was very impressed with Bill’s knowledge of castles and their construction techniques. Though it meant nothing to me; it was just a big castle with a moat and a drawbridge. As we got closer, and the castle grew larger, I could see Bill was getting more excited. “I stand corrected,” said Bill as we reached the edge of the water-filled moat. “It’s actually of concentric design, which means there is no keep; they relied on the main wall for defense, with towers along the length of the walls.” Bill pointed at the towers which I could see quite clearly. “Most Edwardian castles had three concentric rings of walls and towers. This seems only to have one,” continued Bill. “The central space was kept as an open courtyard, but some, like this one, would house the owner’s home, the manor house.” Bill’s knowledge, though fascinating, did not tell me the one thing I needed to know.

“You see that,” Bill pointed at the moat, “that’s a moat.” I looked at Bill and smiled widely, indicating I already knew that. “Sorry, just getting a bit carried away,” apologized Bill.

“How do you know so much about castles anyway?” I asked Bill as we stood on the wrong side of the moat.

“Dungeons and Dragons. I play it all the time. There is a whole game plan devoted to building your castle defenses.”

“Well, it looks like that this castle has no one defending it. Look, it seems deserted,” I said. The castle did look deserted; I could see no knights guarding the walls and there appeared to be no activity in any of the four towers.

“How do we get across?” I asked Bill, indicating the moat, which was at least twenty feet wide.

“The drawbridge, usually,” said Bill, “which seems to be raised.” We walked around the castle. The moat did indeed surround all four walls, and there were no signs of life on any of the other three walls or rear towers. Beyond the castle, in all directions, was a green meadow. The orchard we had seen when we had first arrived was no more than a blip on the horizon.

“I doubt they will have a phone,” said Bill. He had a point; there were no telegraph poles, electricity pylons, or any other modern structures in view. “What now?” asked Bill.

We didn’t have to wait long to find out. The sound of chain on wood broke the silence around us as the drawbridge began to lower. As it hit the ground with a thud, the gate, which was behind where the drawbridge had stood when raised, opened outward. I looked at Bill, and Bill looked at me. As the gate slowly opened, the sound of the creaking amplified due to the acoustical nature of our surroundings, a figure emerged from the darkness. The darkness was caused by shadows, which seemed to cloak the entrance of the castle. We both took a step back at the same time. It was eerie, almost ghostly, and I have to admit, I was afraid, nervous, excited and spellbound all at the same time. So was Bill. I felt him shaking as he grabbed my hand.

Normally, I would have rebuked the hand of another man, but in this case I made an exception. At that moment, I needed Bill as much as he needed me. The figure slowly emerged from the darkness. He wore a cloak that shrouded his face. He slowly and deliberately removed the hood that hid his face, and he moved into the light from the sun that did not shine above us. The man at the other of end of drawbridge beckoned us with his finger and then spoke.

“You’re early.”

Bill and I did as the outstretched finger instructed and made our way across the drawbridge and over the moat.

“Did he just say we were early?” I whispered to Bill. Bill nodded.

“He sure did.”

As we approached the beckoning finger and passed through the gate, which now meant we stood within the castle walls, I managed to get a better look at the man who had greeted us. He wore a brown cloak with a hood, which he removed, revealing a rather unremarkable face. I estimated he was in his late fifties, maybe early sixties, and he was balding. What hair he had was gray, and he possessed a rather glum-looking face, which I would describe as dour. There was a small gap at the nape of his cloak that revealed a shirt and tie.

“You do know that you are early, don’t you?” said our new, unidentified friend. “I suppose it doesn’t matter, as I think everyone on my list has arrived anyway,” he said before either I or Bill could reply. If he looked dour, then he certainly sounded dour as well. His voice was monotone, and if I had met him anywhere else other than a remote castle in the middle of nowhere, I would have called him boring. I guessed his accent was Midwestern, probably from Ohio, but I wasn’t sure. Before we got too close, Bill whispered to me that he believed it was Saint Peter who kept Heaven’s gate. I found it hard to believe that the glum man was
the
Saint Peter. When I finally got within conversation distance, I spoke.

“Saint Peter?” I asked.

“No, Bernard,” replied Bernard.

“Saint Bernard?” suggested Bill.

“No. That’s a type of dog,” said Bernard in his droning voice, “usually found in Switzerland, if memory serves. Renowned, I am led to believe, for their long history of life-saving with the small barrel of brandy that is attached to their collars, which they offer people in need. I am not sure how they offer it, but I understand that they do. To felled skiers and lost persons disoriented, I am sure, by snow. That is my understanding of whom, or in this case, what, a Saint Bernard is. I am merely Bernard.” I had never heard of Bernard, and I could not recall any character named Bernard in any Bible, Koran, or any other religious publication or manual.

He seemed to be very knowledgeable about dogs though, especially large breeds. Bernard beckoned us into the castle, and we entered a courtyard. Bill was correct; the courtyard separated the gate from a single large building. It looked like a large house, and it did, as Bill had predicted, have some sort of chapel attached to the rear of it. I looked around and sized up my surroundings. It seemed, apart from Bernard, Bill, and I, that the place was deserted.

“It’s a bit quiet,” I said to no one in particular. Bernard ignored me, but Bill joined in.

“It’s like an old western town after the gold rush when everyone left. Buildings remained but no people.”

“Apart from Bernard,” I said.

“Apart from Bernard,” confirmed Bill. Bernard ignored our comments and instead pointed toward what Bill had called the great hall.