by Heide Goody
“Yes,” said Evelyn tiredly. “Why not?”
“And then there’s trains, right?” said Christopher.
“Very good,” said St Thomas.
“What are they?” asked Francis.
“They’re like very big cars that run on rails for when lots of people all want to go to the same place.”
“Like on a cwusade to the Holy Land?”
“That sort of thing, yes.”
“By the way, which of the faithful controls the Holy Land now?” asked Christopher.
“The Jews,” said St Thomas.
Francis pulled a surprised face.
“Wouldn’t have been my first guess. Or my second.”
“The religious situation on Earth is a complex one these days,” said St Thomas. “There’s this thing they call ‘diversity.’”
“What’s that?”
“It means people can believe what they want,” said Evelyn. “And that’s a good thing.”
“In your travels,” said St Thomas, “you may encounter Christians, Muslims, Jews but also Hindus, Buddhists, Pastafarians and Jedis.”
“What’s that man holding?” asked Christopher, pointing at the screen.
“It’s a lightsaber,” said Evelyn.
“Is that one of the nuclear weapons?” asked Joan.
“No. It’s not really real. There aren’t any real Jedis.”
St Thomas made a loud humphing noise.
“That’s simply enough, madam. You’re not only willing to argue with the evidence of your own eyes but dare to contradict my authority on matters religious and spiritual?”
“Listen, Tom,” said Evelyn hotly. “Your five proofs for God’s existence were inspired and we all appreciate your work on Just War theory but this is my world we’re talking about and, as a Church of England rector, I think I am just as qualified as you to —”
“Wait a minute,” said Christopher. “You weally are a pwiest?”
“And you’re a woman?” said Francis.
Evelyn seized her dog collar.
“I’m not wearing this for a bet, boys. It’s the twenty-first century. Sisters are doing it for themselves.”
“Doing what for themselves?” asked Christopher.
“Everything. Thinking for themselves. Making decisions for themselves. Earning a living for themselves.”
“Like pwostitutes?”
“Not like prostitutes, Francis. Women can be anything they want to be.”
“Well, not anything,” said Christopher, failing to keep a note of ridicule out of his voice. “Not soldiers or teachers or doctors or—”
“Anything!” Evelyn poked at her own lower torso. “Just because I’ve got a uterus, doesn’t mean I’m some hysterical and helpless creature.”
“Isn’t that exactly what it means?” said St Thomas with a frown. “Hippocrates showed that the female hysteria is caused by the uterus moving through different parts of the body.”
“What? Like some alien parasite? Jeez!” Evelyn had started to turn an interesting shade of red. “I can’t believe you’re so backward. Wandering womb theory is as stupid as bleeding the sick, the healing powers of kings and the idea that disease is caused by bad smells.”
“Isn’t it?” said Francis.
“You men are going down to Earth,” said Evelyn. “And Joan is leading you. If there’s one thing you need to get into your tiny Neanderthal brains, it’s that women are every bit the equal of men and that you’d better get your sexist attitudes up to date, pronto!”
The silence that followed was long and profound. Evelyn, clearly buzzing with passion, stiffly sat down next to Joan.
“No, no, she’s right,” said St Thomas, eventually, quietly. “Women are generally regarded as equal to men in the modern world. And, since the Rosa Parks incident in 1955, they’re also allowed to ride on buses.”
“That’s not quite right…” Evelyn began but she was too spent to argue further.
“What is a bus?” asked Francis.
“It’s a vehicle,” said Christopher. “Bigger than a car but smaller than a train.”
“For when you want to go on a small cwusade, perhaps?”
“To the shops and such.”
“And what are shops?”
“Right. Shops,” said St Thomas as a fresh set of pictures appeared on the screen.
When the knock came on her apartment door, Joan was pleased to see that it was Evelyn, not least because it gave her the chance to thank her for her supportive (if occasionally incoherently angry) words at St Thomas’s briefing.
Evelyn shrugged.
“Just looking out for a mate,” she said. “Now, are you all prepared?”
“Gabriel is organising the money and equipment we might need.”
“As long as he’s not sending you down there with horses and a baggage train.”
“I’m sure we’ll be thoroughly modern and inconspicuous,” said Joan. “I suggested that he give us a car. I would dearly love to have a Ferrari, like in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. Have you seen that film?”
“Not as often as you, no. Besides, you can’t drive and a Ferrari is far from inconspicuous. You’ve got maps. Good. And you’re taking your tablet.”
“I assume it will work on Earth.”
“Yes, although you will actually need to charge it from time to time. On Earth, stuff runs on electricity, not prayers and wishes.”
Joan could see Evelyn shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
Evelyn grimaced.
“You and I have talked about Earth, the Earth of the present day.”
“It fascinates me,” smiled Joan.
Evelyn took a deep breath.
“I’m worried for you. Earth, even Holland or France or wherever, has its dangers. It’s not… it’s not Heaven.”
Joan gave little shake of her head as though to cast off Evelyn’s concerns.
“I did spend nineteen years down there. Nineteen years of mud and illness and injury and, in the end, excruciating pain. I think I can handle Holland.”
“But that’s it,” said Evelyn, placing a hand on Joan’s arm greave. “The dangers of the modern world are subtler, more insidious. It’s a cynical world. There’s not a lot of faith or honesty going round.”
“Are you telling me that everyone on Earth is wicked?”
“No. Of course not. Most people are wonderful, flawed human beings. But the bad ones will be drawn to you. And, yes, it’s because you are young, pretty and far too naïve for your own good.”
“Is this about men, Evelyn? I have met men.”
“No, it’s not just men. Okay, it’s mostly men. It’s just, I’ve got some words of advice for you, that’s all.”
“Go for it.”
“One: If someone says something to you, they probably don’t mean it.”
“They’re lying?”
“No. Not necessarily. Not always. There’s this thing called sarcasm. It’s like sort of making a point by saying the exact opposite of what you mean.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Well, be glad you’re not going to Britain because their sarcasm switch is jammed in the on position.”
“Are you being sarcastic now?”
“Who can say? Two: Just because you’re right, doesn’t mean you’re right. Truth and goodness do not prevail.”
“But they should.”
“Doesn’t matter. Three: Do not argue with anyone wearing a badge or carrying a gun. And definitely do not argue with anyone who has both.”
“Got it.”
“And look.” Evelyn passed Joan two pieces of folded notepaper. “I’ve written down some phrases. If anyone says any on this first list to you, walk away. Do not stop to think, do not wait to see what happens. Walk away and don’t look back.”
“Sure,” said Joan. “And what if anyone says any off the second list?”
Evelyn gave her a sad smile.
&nbs
p; “Punch them in the face and run.”
“Sure thing,” said Joan.
“We need to get you to the gate. You’re going to be late.”
Joan looked out of the apartment window, at a city of white stone basking in sunless sunlight.
“There’s no time in Heaven,” she said. “And there’s someone I need to speak to first.”
The Almighty is everywhere. He is both transcendent and immanent. He is omnipresent, in all places and at all times.
Nonetheless, Joan went to visit Him.
At the heart of the Celestial City was the Empyrium, the seat of the Holy Throne room. And in the Holy Throne room, on a dais of a hundred marble steps, was the Holy Throne. And atop the Throne sat the Almighty, his glory so bright that Joan could barely raise her eyes to gaze upon Him.
“Lord,” she said, on bended knee, “I have been entrusted with this mission to Earth. I have been told it could be dangerous and I am ready to face those dangers.” She licked her lips nervously. “But, in all your wisdom and power, you could find the answers you seek in but a moment. Is there a need for this… this charade?”
The brilliance of the Almighty’s glory shifted, expanding and receding.
“I understand, Lord,” said Joan. “But Mary… Maybe if she doesn’t want to be found, we should leave her alone. She is… puissant. If anyone is to bring her home, perhaps it should be yourself.”
Light flared and curled, making fresh shadows around Joan.
“Of course,” she said. “But am I the right person? Am I doing this to satisfy my own need for purpose and action? I have been self-centred and put my own desires above what is right. Is there no one more suited to this task than I?”
The glory of the Almighty pulsed and flickered, a spectrum of colours washing over the teenage saint.
“Thank you, Lord,” said Joan, rising slowly. “That was all I needed to know.”
They met at the wall of the city before a simple wooden door that had not been there the day before. The Archangel Gabriel watched approvingly as angels of a lower order gave each of the three travellers a cloth bag containing such riches and supplies as they would need.
“The last address we have for Mary,” Gabriel handed a slip of paper to Joan, “a street called Bastenakenstraat in Amsterdam. You might pick up some clues if you go there.”
Joan nodded.
“We shall be watching. When your mission is completed, you shall be brought back.”
“And if we don’t succeed?” said France.
“Heaven is patient. We will of course be able to hear your prayers but, apart from that, you will be alone.”
“And we will have real bodies on Earth?” asked Christopher. “Real human bodies. We won’t just be wandering shades?”
“Real bodies. This is an incarnation, not a visitation.”
An angel stood on tiptoes to whisper something in the archangel’s ear.
“So what happens if we’re killed on Earth?” asked Joan.
“What happens if we sin?” asked Francis.
“Were you planning on sinning?” said Joan.
“Just a little concerned that some of us” – and Francis’s tone made it clear that he didn’t include himself in that group – “might jeopardise our place in Heaven.”
“Just look after yourselves,” said Gabriel. “And be good. I think our only real concern is with Christopher.”
“What?” said the giant saint.
The whispering angel gave him a cheerful smile.
“You see, you’re a non-historical figure. The only reason you exist in Heaven is because the faithful have previously asserted your existence. And as it is on Earth—”
“—so shall it be in Heaven,” said Christopher. “Yes, yes. So?”
“Well,” said the angel, “you’re going back to Earth now.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t ever truly exist there and so…”
“So?”
“You might vanish from existence the moment you step through the gate.”
Christopher waved his arms around in apoplectic annoyance.
“And you couldn’t have mentioned this earlier?”
“This is Heaven, time doesn’t exist. There was no earlier.”
Joan shrugged, stepped forward and opened the wooden door. A white luminous mist swirled in the emptiness beyond.
“It’s not too late to back out.”
“It might be,” Christopher whined. “The folks at NSPAU gave me a leaving party. There was cake and everything.”
“Then we’re set,” said Joan and walked through.
The brightness of the mist forced Joan to shield her eyes for a moment or two. When she opened them again and her vision had cleared, she found herself in a stall with gaily-painted wooden walls. Directly behind her was an uncomfortable looking stool fashioned from white china. The stall was tiny and she was alone.
“Hello?” she called out.
“Hello?” came Francis’s equally confused voice from somewhere off to one side.
Joan undid the bolt on the door in front of her and squeezed out into a larger room. The cubicle she had emerged from was one of four along one wall of the room. Opposite was a row of washing basins and mirrors. There was a faintly unsavoury whiff in the air.
“Shhh, stay boy,” whispered Francis from one of the other stalls and then there was the click of the door unlocking and Francis emerged.
The two of them looked at their surroundings and at each other.
“I suspect this might be some form of lavatorium,” ventured Francis.
“Ah,” nodded Joan. “Where is Christopher?”
They looked at the two remaining stalls. There was no sound from within either. Joan carefully rapped on the doors.
“Christopher?”
“Go away,” snapped a gravelly voice.
“That doesn’t sound like Chwistopher.”
“What’s happened to him?”
Joan’s mind was flooded with dreadful images. What if Christopher hadn’t come through from Heaven unscathed? What if he had only half come through? And which half? The top half? The left half? Or had he become a horrifically reduced perversion of his former self?
Joan raised an iron-shod foot and kicked the door in, shattering the flimsy lock.
The bearded man squatting on the china seat with his trousers round his ankles gave a throttled gasp of surprise and tried to use the newspaper he was reading to cover his indignity.
“What are you doing?” he wailed. “Can’t a man crap in peace? And you!” He waved his newspaper momentarily at Joan. “This is the gents! Take your fancy dress party somewhere else!”
The man, quite skilfully, swung the door shut with his foot whilst still hiding his embarrassment.
Joan and Francis looked at one another.
“So…”
The door of the final cubicle clicked open and Christopher stepped through, punching the air with his two meaty fists.
“I. Am. Alive!” he crowed joyfully.
“Wight,” said Francis, “so does anybody know where we are?”
Joan shrugged.
“Let’s go find out.”
She led the way out of the lavatorium or ‘gents’ and into a wide low-ceiling room, dotted with plush chairs and tables and filled with dozens of men, women and children. Joan felt a strange feeling in her stomach, a soup of excitement, fear and wonder. The three of them stood huddled slightly together, gazing in something akin to reverence.
“So, this is Earth,” said Joan, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Look at them,” said Christopher. “Their clothes. The colours.”
“And they’re all so clean,” said Francis.
“And there’s carpet,” said Joan, treading up and down on the vibrant, abstract pattern.
“You had carpet in your day, surely?” said Francis.
“But it’s everywhere.”
“It’s beautiful.”
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��But what is this place?” said Christopher.
Joan pouted in thought, taking in the uniformed people behind a counter and the range of drinks and packaged foods the people were eating.
“It’s some kind of tavern,” she said.
“Some of these women aren’t wearing very much,” said Christopher. “What is that one wearing?”
“I think it’s called a rude tube,” said Joan and immediately felt that she had it a little wrong.
“It certainly looks quite rude. Perhaps this is a bawdyhouse.”
Francis had his arms out at his sides and his head tilted to one side.
“Is it me, fwiends, or are we moving?”
Joan was about to admonish his foolishness but stopped. There did seem to be a thrumming sensation beneath her feet and the feeling that the world was gently tilting.
“A castle built on shifting sands?” said Christopher.
Joan frowned and walked slowly over to one of the many broad windows in the room.
“Oh, criminey!” she gasped.
“It’s the sea!” said Francis.
“And we’re so high!” said Christopher. “A castle in the sea.”
“The wising sea levels,” nodded Francis.
“Sinful pasta,” agreed Joan.
“Or…” said Christopher slowly, uncertainly, “we could be on a ship.”
Francis blew out his lips.
“A ship this big?”
“Don’t you remember the Titanic?”
“No. What’s that?”
Christopher pulled a face.
“Probably not the best time to mention it, not one of my finest moments.”
Francis was surprised to discover that Christopher was correct. A little bit of exploration and reading of signs informed them that they were on The Pride of Yorkshire, a North Sea ferry taking passengers from Kingston-Upon-Hull in England to the port of Zeebrugge in somewhere called Belgium. The statistics were either bald-faced lies or so mind-boggling as to be beyond comprehension.
“Twelve decks?” Francis wasn’t convinced.
“Weighs sixty thousand tons?” said Joan, equally incredulous.
“Over a thousand passengers,” Christopher tried not to worry.
“This world…” said Joan. “Maybe there are seven billion people on Earth now…”
“…if wondwous floating cities like this are commonplace,” nodded Francis.
