by Ramy Vance
Angels are all mercy and forgiveness until you break one of God’s laws. Then they’re fire and brimstone, going all Sodom and Gomorrah on your ass. (Funny thing about going Sodom and Gomorrah … that’s the angel’s equivalent of going postal. I guess our species aren’t that different after all.)
I knew this part of Penemue’s past. I’d heard it dozens of times before—when he was tipsy, drunk, hungover, then drunk again. He loved to tell me how all of this was his doing, because—in his words, not mine—“Without the power of the pen, how would humans have been able to develop the sciences necessary to build the world around you? The strength of the cement under your feet evolved from humans incrementally improving on the previous generation’s recipe. My sin paved the way for that cement. For the clothes on your back. For the airplanes in your sky and those precious 1980s toys on your shelves. For all of that, my dear human Jean-Luc Matthias, you are welcome.”
That little speech was usually followed by him passing out.
Penemue always spoke of that part of his past with pride. Something he relished in that if I could do it again, I would sort of way. And not something he lamented or wished was different.
So, when we left the library and entered what can only be described as an open-air classroom, complete with row after row of school desks and a blackboard at the front … I knew there was something he hadn’t told me.
↔
“Where are we?” Judith walked amongst the empty desks. She put her hand on one of them, but her fingers passed right through. She repeated this a couple more times before she sighed. “I thought those days were done.”
Shrugging, I walked over to an empty desk and looked around. Even though we were in a classroom, we were outside. This was one of those open-concept schools, and I would have assumed we were in some ancient village, where so much took place outside because the cost of building structures was far too great given their technology and means, but the desks were modern, the blackboard was too well manufactured and the friggin’ projector at the front had one of those flashing lights in the shape of a dot with waves emanating from it.
I guess the human symbol for Wi-Fi was universal—as in, expanding across universes.
No, we weren’t in the past. We were just in one of those school that mandated students be outside as much as possible. And given how perfect the weather was, why not? This was paradise.
Except it wasn’t; we were in Hell. Penemue’s Hell. So whatever was about to happen next would be dreadful.
Looking beyond the classroom, what surrounded us was nothing less than spectacular. To the north—I think it was north, based on where the sun was, but then again, we were in Hell. Who knew how directions worked here?—lay a mountain with lightning constantly crashing into it. To the south, what looked like an upside-down iceberg hovered in the air. The west housed a constellation of emerald stars, and to the east, a tree.
A giant friggin’ tree that reached up to the heavens. A tree that looked like the love child of a giant redwood and sycamore … if both were the size of the Chrysler Building and Mount Everest put together.
I’d never seen that tree or any tree like it before, but I had heard about it so damn much since the gods left that I would recognize it anywhere.
That was the Tree of Good and Evil.
In other words, the tree from which Adam and Eve ate, thus condemning us to our current mortal coil.
↔
“What the f—” I started, staring at the impossibly huge tree in the distance.
“Language,” Judith admonished.
“—uck,” I said. “As in firetruck.” Then I pointed at the tree and groaned.
“Is that …” Bella started, stepping forward to get a better look.
I nodded.
Judith must have come to the same conclusions as Bella and me, because she just shook her head and did something I’d never seen her do in all the years she’d been dead. She crossed herself—as in spectacles, testicles, wallet and watch, oh God who art in Heaven crossed herself.
“Where are we?” Judith asked.
I shook my head. “I don’t know. But look to the north—that mountaintop is bombarded by lightning. Penemue told me about a place like that once. Mount Olympus. And over there, that floating iceberg-like thing … I’m guessing that’s Niflheim. And there—the Emerald City of Qa. And it’s not just the four points on the compass. If you look between them, there’s the dark forest of Yomi.” As I spoke the words, I could feel my heart racing. My anxiety rose as it dawned on me where we were. I pointed to the other side. “And that lush forest just opposite Yomi has got to be Mag Mell … and that cave is—”
“Jean,” Bella said, touching my hand. Just knowing that she was near immediately calmed the thumping gallop in my chest. “What’s going on? What do you know?”
Taking a deep breath, I cracked my neck. “I don’t know where we are, but wherever it is, we are literally surrounded by all the heavens and hells of every religion ever. We must be. Those places, the descriptions of them, are too precise to be anywhere else.”
“But we’re in Hell,” Bella said in that matter-of-fact tone of hers.
I nodded. “Yes, and those places aren’t the heavens and hells, but representations of them.”
“OK,” Judith said, slowly drawing the word out as she considered this. “So we’re in the middle of all the heavens and hells. Why?”
“I don’t know. But as nice as this place is, it’s not what it seems. Ready yourselves,” I said, putting my hand on my gun.
Marty hissed, and Bella set a heavy tome that she must have grabbed from the library over her chest.
“Maybe we should get out of here,” Judith said. “Just move on.”
I nodded. “Maybe. Nothing seems to be happening here. The trouble is, we need to get to the center of Hell. That’s where Penemue will be. Which way should we go?”
“Anywhere,” Judith whispered. “Anywhere is better than here. Better to move than just stand here.”
I shook my head. “No, there’s got be a clue. Something to help us find the damn angel and—”
But before I could finish the thought, a trumpet sounded. And by trumpet, I mean the kind you’d hear at the end of days. Believe me, I’ve heard it before, and the sound is unmistakable.
The trumpet blew three times before an angel appeared at the front of the classroom.
“Speak of the devil …” I muttered, staring at Penemue.
Classroom of the Gods
Penemue stood in front of the blackboard, looking at his watchless wrist in faux-exasperation, as though to say, Do you people know what time it is?
Pulling out a telescopic pointer, he extended it and tapped the blackboard.
“Penemue.” I reached out my hand and took a step in his direction.
If the twice-fallen angel heard me, he made no sign of it. He simply cleared his throat and in a voice that expressed infinite patience being tested, said, “Odin, how kind of you to join us.”
With a flash of smoke, a cloud of—what the hell was that?—ravens appeared in one of the desk seats. The ravens flew off in every direction, leaving behind a youthful figure with what looked like a toy pirate’s patch over his eye. The kid couldn’t have been older than eleven, but despite his youth, I could feel power rippling through him.
“Sorry, Mr. Penemue,” he said. “Loki and Thor were fighting and—”
“Tattletale!” a voice cried out. Two figures—one blond, one with slick black hair—came running up the hill.
“It’s not tattling if it’s true. Besides, I stopped the fight, just as a father must,” Odin said. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Penemue?”
Penemue nodded. “Indeed. They are the fruit of your loins and therefore your responsibility.”
“And with great responsibility comes great power,” said the childlike Odin.
“That is why you’re a god,” Penemue agreed. Looking past the patch-eyed god, the normally drunk angel smiled
. “Ahhh, my dear Athena. I didn’t think you’d join us today.”
“I almost didn’t,” said a young lady no older than thirteen. Despite her awkward age, she exhibited a grace I’d only ever seen in Miral—the friggin’ angel. “But in the end, the deliberations were short-lived and, well, I’m glad I made it.”
“So, is Atlantis sunk?”
“No,” groaned a young, shirtless boy who entered carrying a trident. “No underwater cities for me.”
Three more creatures entered—or rather, gods I had encountered in what felt like another life. They were Quetzalcoatl, Baldr and Izanami, three gods from three separate pantheons who shared one quality: they had died. And yes, gods can die, but they don’t die in the conventional sense. About ten years ago, they tried to resurrect themselves to fill the godless void with their presence, and I, with the help of some of my more ancient friends, had stopped them. But that’s another story.
The controversy surrounding these gods’ deaths was that none of their fellow gods had brought them back to life. Instead, they had chosen to lock them away. And seeing them alive, youthful and happy … well, I had expected to see things in Hell that I wouldn’t have expected. But as prepared as I was to be surprised, I wasn’t prepared for them.
The three dead gods—or rather, their youthful representations—walked in with a huff.
“Ahhh, you three,” Penemue said. “Glad you could join us.”
Baldr and Izanami nodded, muttering a half-hearted, “Hello, Mr. Penemue.”
Quetzalcoatl, on the other hand, said nothing.
“Mr. Aztec God, are you too good to be civil, or shall I send you to detention for another eon?”
The birdlike god’s eyes widened. With a chirp, he said, “Hello, Mr. Penemue,” before taking his desk.
“Very good,” Penemue said. He looked around the open-air room. “We’re almost all here. Everyone but ...”
“We’re here,” said two voices in unison.
I turned to see two teenagers with—you’ve got to be kidding me—fig leaves for scantily-clad clothing walking up the hill, hand in hand.
“Adam, Eve—welcome.”
“Sorry we’re late, Mr. Penemue,” Adam said. “We were …” His voice trailed off as a blush painted his face. Eve giggled as the two of them took their seats, never letting go of each other’s hand as they did.
“We’re all here,” Penemue said. “All the gods and two very capable representatives of the human race, together under one roof.” He looked up. “Well, under one sky …” Everyone chuckled. “So, without further delay, let us begin today’s lessons.”
↔
Penemue cleared his throat. “In the beginning …” Booming laughter followed. “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself. As silly as that statement may be—after all, we all know that before the beginning, there was us—it is a great segue into today’s lecture. In the beginning—the true beginning—there was only us. Gods”—he pointed at the godly pupils—“and their denizens.” He touched himself on the chest.
“But you folks weren’t satisfied with just having us around. You wanted something else. Something more. And as loath as I am to admit that I, an angel of Heaven, wasn’t enough, I know that to be true. We—as in, your denizens—were not enough. You needed another challenge, something more than the creations who didn’t believe in you because they walked amongst you. In other words, you needed something or someone whose only connection to you was through faith. You needed humans.” Penemue pointed at Adam and Eve.
“More specifically, you needed humans with free will. Free to do as they liked, to believe in what they wanted. Believe—and not believe—in what they wanted. You wanted these new creations to come to you honestly. You wanted them to come to you on their own.”
Odin turned around to look at Adam and Eve. “And to be grateful for what we gave them.”
“Fair enough,” Penemue said. “But it didn’t work out that way. Or at least, it’s not working out that way, is it? Does anyone know why?”
The class went silent as they looked to their teacher for answers.
“You all know my thing, right? My special ability granted to me by, well, all of you when you first breathed life into me? For those of you who might not remember”—he gave Baldr a wink—“my thing is knowing all that is written. That means everything put down on paper, parchment, stone or even written in the sand with a stick. I also know everything that is written on the human soul, and what I have read time and time again is that with human free will comes doubt. Doubt is a perfectly natural, healthy aspect of their being. They doubt you because there are so many conflicting messages, pain, suffering—but also joy, triumph and beauty that is both natural, unexplained and crafted by their hands.”
The students looked at Penemue with confusion. Anubis cocked his head in that way dogs do when they’re unsure what to make of something.
By the GoneGods, I was confused, and I had heard this little rant before. Like, hundreds of times before.
Penemue, unperturbed, cleared his throat. “They doubt because they, too, can create. And no, they don’t have magic, but they do have ingenuity, intelligence, science and instinct. They use those abilities—abilities you imbued them with—to make things that never were. Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa, airplanes, rockets to the moon … Paradise Lost.” He smiled as he uttered that last one. “They create, they make. They imagine, and then they make those musings into reality. And in doing so, they expand their universe—their knowledge—through sheer will and determination. And they believe they do so on their own.”
“But … but we’re helping,” Athena said.
“Are you?”
“Well …” She considered his question. “The muses are our creation.”
“And they dabble from time to time. But they certainly aren’t responsible for all of humanity’s creations, are they?”
His question was met with silence.
“Are they?” His booming voice demanded an answer.
Many of the gods shook their heads. Only Athena spoke. “No, I suppose not.”
“And as for your direct involvement …” He scanned the classroom before finally pointing at a young god with an elephant’s head. “Ganesha?”
“We don’t do that anymore.”
“Not anymore. You long ago abandoned them to their own devices, and yet you still expect faith. Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t expect you to come to Earth and start walking amongst them. That wouldn’t be good, given some of your less amicable natures. Loki, I’m looking at you.”
Loki giggled. “Yeah, yeah. I would try to enslave them. It’s my thing.”
“Indeed,” Penemue said. “But just because you shouldn’t walk amongst them doesn’t mean you can’t be more present. It doesn’t mean you shouldn’t share …”
Penemue paused as he let the words sink in.
“Share what?” Anansi asked.
“Share what you know. Share a bit of what you can do.”
“Give them magic,” Zeus boomed as literal lightning bolts rippled out of him.
“No—knowledge. Share some of the secrets of the universe, let them in on some of your divine, God-only-knows knowledge.”
“Why?”
“Faith,” Penemue said.
More confused looks.
“By sharing a bit of your divinity with them, you will be expressing your own faith in them, and that … that is something they will reciprocate in kind.”
And therein lay the crux of Penemue’s argument. Faith is a two-way street, and when you think about it—really think about it—it’s a tough pill to swallow. Faith was always one way: humans to gods. The idea that faith could be two ways, especially in the way Penemue meant it, was something most couldn’t wrap their heads around. Hell, I struggled with it and I’m an atheist. Even after the gods left and there was irrefutable proof that they existed, it didn’t change how I felt, because I never had faith in them before, and that didn’t change after.
&
nbsp; “Which leads us to today’s lecture.” Penemue swung the blackboard around, revealing The Importance of Faith written in bold letters.
“Oh brother.” Loki rolled his eyes.
Thor punched his brother in the arm.
“Stop it, you two,” Odin boomed.
“Gentlemen.” Penemue cleared his throat. Loudly. The three Norse gods immediately faced Penemue. “Thank you.”
Whatever—or whoever—Penemue was in this scenario, he clearly had the gods’ respect. Bigly so.
“What the hell is going on?” Bella said, loud enough that everyone in this classroom of the divine should have heard her. No one turned. Whatever was happening, we existed on another plane from which we could watch, but not interact.
“I don’t know,” I said, “but this never happened. I have spent way, waay, wa-aay too much time with Penemue in various states of intoxication, hearing all sorts of stories about Heaven and Hell, the gods and their histories, and this was never even hinted at. This can’t be—”
“It’s a dream,” Judith said.
Bella, Marty and I looked at the once-upon-a-time specter in confusion. “It’s a dream,” she repeated. “Well, a daydream, at least. This is what Penemue wished happened, but didn’t.”
More blank looks from the rest of us.
“Think about it,” Judith said in exasperation. “The gods and humans in one room, being lectured by him. He has their respect rather than their hatred for what he did. And what’s more, they’re all young. And youthful minds are minds that can be shaped. He’s teaching them to be the kinds of gods he wished they were. Instead of what they really were …”
I nodded in agreement; Judith’s theory made perfect sense. Penemue never regretted teaching humans how to read or write, but he did regret what happened afterward: being kicked out of Heaven, his time in Hell. He angered the gods—most of them, at least—and that cost him a lot.
Penemue cleared his throat again, this time giving Baldr an authoritative look before pointing to an empty seat at the front of the class. The heavyset kid stood up in a huff to sit at the front. “Now, where was I?”
