A Handicap of the Devil? (10 page)

"That's the whole point, Peter. I'm asking for a mass act of faith by humanity. All I've ever asked of those dingbats on Earth is that they be good, and ergo, they will go to heaven when they die. To be good, as I define it, they must share with their fellow men and women the fruits of the Earth. Make sure nobody is in serious need. Look after one another and be good to one another. Respect other people's creed, race and religion. Tolerance, Peter, if only they had tolerance for what others believe. It doesn't matter what you call it, or who you think the prophets were or were not ... or believe that there were no prophets at all. All that matters is that what you believe leads to good works on Earth—and not to evil. If you follow that simple criterion, then it matters not a whit whether you call yourself, Christian, Jewish, Buddhist, Mohammedan or Callithumpian."

"You won't consider giving him the power to perform miracles?"

"No, I won't. People down there believe, or they don't believe."

St. Peter smiled his enigmatic smile as he dusted for the fourteenth time that day. “Okay, but to make this mission work, you'll have to give him something."

"What do you suggest?"

"Well, you are implacably opposed to miracles to make it all work, but how about one little sign?"

God sat up straight on his chair. “Such as?"

And so it was that a star appeared in the sky directly over Mrs. O'Reilly's boarding house.

Astronomers searched for the meaning of a star that was fixed in time and space. Astrologers searched for meaning, came up with a thirteenth star sign and lobbied governments to change the calendar to thirteen months in the year. The Left considered it to be a United States satellite positioned over Adelaide for the sole purpose of gleaning Australia's military secrets—or collecting all telephone and other electronic transmissions. The Right reckoned it to be a Russian or Chinese satellite placed there for the same purpose. The Prime Minister made a statement blaming the opposition. The opposition blamed the Prime Minister. Church leaders congregated at the spot. They spoke to Mrs. O'Reilly and went away shaking their heads.

No baby had been born in that house for at least forty years.

Six weeks later, three wise Arabs were arrested as they unloaded their camels from a freighter at Outer Harbour terminal. As they had no papers and no valid excuse for being in the country, they were at first incarcerated in the Port Adelaide police cells. Later they were transferred to police headquarters, where dark-jowled men wearing trilby hats and light brown raincoats interrogated them to see if there were any links with terrorist organizations. After that, they were transferred to a centre for illegal immigrants, where they remained for several years before being deported, sans camels, back to their homeland.

The star over Mrs. O'Reilly's boarding house did Jonathan no good whatever.

The star over the boarding house may have done Jonathan no good, but that same star did dreadful things to Mrs. O'Reilly's equilibrium. “Sure, and how is a body supposed to be conducting their ordinary, normal business, now, when every time I go out the front door I trip over a reporter or a camera-man?” She and Jonathan were the only people in the boarding house kitchen, the other boarders having left as hastily as possible after yet another burnt and awful dinner. Mrs. O'Reilly saw that Jonathan was nodding sympathetically. Encouraged by this she continued, ever more indignantly. “There be reporters from the papers and the magazines. Direct Television and radio broadcasts are bein’ done. We've had journalists from interstate and overseas ringin’ me bell at all hours.” Mrs. O'Reilly was rarely stumped for words, but right now she struggled for language strong enough to express her feelings. “Me boarders are complainin’ about the invasion to their privacy, and I can't say I blame them. If any of me boarders decide to give me notice because of this ... this ... gross intrusion on the privacy of me and me guests, I'll find someone to sue. You see if I don't. It's enough to drive a woman to drink, you mark my words, now."

In truth, Mrs. O'Reilly found one blessing in the star that hung in the firmament over her boarding house. She no longer had to find her torch late at night when she needed to repair to the unlit cellar in quest of yet another bottle of her homemade poteen.

"I wouldn't mind so much, but as soon as I suggest one of them might like to buy the story, they all run a mile. And that's not the worst of it, oh no. That star up there in the sky is so bright that I've had to put darker blinds on all the bedroom winders. The only one I haven't got around to doing yet is me own and I haven't slept a wink since the wretched thing first appeared. I've asked the council, the state government and the police to remove it, but they say it's nothing to do with them. I've even written to the prime minister, and he hasn't had the common courtesy or decency to give me so much as a reply."

"I'm sure it's all been a great trial to you, Mrs. O'Reilly.” Jonathan sat at the table drinking a cup of tea. He was trying to gauge when would be the best time to apprise Mrs. O'Reilly of his recent association with the Almighty.

"A great trial? That's not the half of it. Every church leader apart from the pope has been here in the last few days. I was hangin’ out the washing only yesterday when an Italian Monseigneur from Italy frightened the life out of me by calling out something in a foreign language from the back gate."

"In Italian?"

"It was either that or it was in Latin. It sounded suspiciously like part of the mass to me. Come to think of it, he was probably giving me a blessing. I was so put off me stride, I didn't give him an answer, and ain't that a pity, now? Here's a Monseigneur all the way from Italy comes to give me a blessing and the events of the last few days have so upset me that I don't give him a reply or even say ‘thank you’ to him. What must he be thinkin’ of me? Do you think he might be tellin’ the pope?"

"Oh, I don't think he'd do that, Mrs. O'Reilly. I'm sure he knows you meant well, and I'm sure the pope would understand that too."

"Do you really be thinking so...? Oh, and I'm hopin’ you be right. It would never do to be upsettin’ the pope, now would it?"

Jonathan shook his head. “Mrs. O'Reilly, I think I may know why that star has been put up there.” If he could convince Mrs. O'Reilly and make her a disciple, she would see to it that the other boarders also became disciples. Such was her power over them all.

"You do? And how would you be knowin’ that, now, Jonathan Goodfellow?"

"I'm, on a mission from God."

Mrs. O'Reilly dropped a cup, which shattered on the floor. “You're ... what?"

"On a mission from God, Mrs. O'Reilly.” Jonathan's voice was steady. “I've seen God."

"You've been seein’ who?"

"God, Mrs. O'Reilly. You see a dwarf hit me on the head with a golf club—here's the lump here, see?—and I went to heaven and there were God and Saint Peter and...."

"Stop!” Mrs. O'Reilly had gone a funny mottled colour. She stood at the sink supporting herself as ‘though she had suddenly become very frail. She took several deep breaths before she continued. “You'll not be blaspheming in my house. Do you hear me, Jonathan Goodfellow?"

"Why won't anyone believe me? Why must it be impossible? I really did see God, and he really did give me a mission to try to save the world. But it can only happen if I get others to believe. You have to believe me, Mrs. O'Reilly.” He picked up the pieces of the cup as he spoke and put them into the rubbish bin that stood by the door to the backyard.

"One more word and I'll be forced to tell you to pack your things."

"Please, answer one question. Why do you find it impossible to believe that it happened? Don't you believe in miracles?"

"Of course I believe in miracles, you fool, of course I do. It's the whole basis of me faith."

"Then why can't you believe that this miracle happened to me? That God really did send for me and gave me a mission to get the world back on the right track?"

"Because ... because if he was going to send for anyone it wouldn't be you. It'd be the Pope or at least the Archbishops. Who are you? A humble accountant, and one that doesn't have any particular strong religious beliefs as far as I'm aware. Why, you don't even go to church on Sunday and if you did, it'd be to a proddy one to be sure, and that's no church at all. It's as likely to happen as ... as.... “Mrs. O'Reilly cast about desperately for the most unlikely event she could conjure. Bugs and Thumper were in the kitchen and sat looking myopically at her through their pink eyes. “It's as likely to happen as ... as your rabbits starting to talk."

"Funny you should mention that...."

"No, Mr. Goodfellow, one more word on this subject to me or to anyone else in this house and you'll have to go. Is that clear?"

Without waiting for Jonathan's agreement, Mrs. O'Reilly stormed from the kitchen into her own room and slammed the door. Once there, she fell to her knees and petitioned her maker to forgive her for hearing such dreadful things. She stayed there so long, she was half an hour late for the first of her many evening glasses of homemade poteen.

Jonathan went up to his room and lay disconsolately on the bed. Bugs and Thumper came in and looked quizzically up at him. They had not seen or heard from God, but they told him they were worried that he was troubled about things.

"I didn't know you cared how I felt."

Bugs stared at him with her myopic pink rabbit stare. “We don't show it because that's the way we are, but we really do think you're nice."

"Yes,” continued Thumper. “You always make sure we get our proper dinner, and that our water dish is full, and that we're safe from cats and dogs. We do like you, but rabbits don't show it."

"We don't suck up like cats or dogs. We hate being picked up or sitting on laps or any of that stuff.” Bugs was frowning with concentration. These were very complex thoughts for a bunny who could only ever hold one thought in her head at a time. The brains of these two dwarf bunnies, like the brains of all of their kind, were no more than the size of a peanut.

"All four paws on the ground at all times,” finished Thumper, and the rabbits became silent, exhausted by the most elaborate conversation or thoughts either of them had ever had.

"What am I going to do? How do I get anyone to believe me?"

"Towel-O.” The cry came from out in the hallway. It was Tex the towel-man, a chronic alcoholic who was given free bed and board by Mrs. O'Reilly in exchange for a number of odd jobs about the place, chief of which was keeping an eye on the guests and their use of towels.

"Towel-O.” Came the cry again.

"Yes, thank you. Yes, I'm coming, thank you.” Jonathan handed his still wet towel to Tex through the door, thanked him again and took the fresh one offered.

Tex squinted through half closed eyes at him. This was the look he reserved for serious matters that were always about towels. “You had two in there you weren't here yesterday when I come and I left one outside your room and I didn't collect your used one so give it to me cause it's gotta go in the wash and you're only allowed to have one towel at a time so I gotta take the other one now.” Tex's nerves were shot to ribbons. He urgently needed a drink but had no money. Dole day was two dry days off.

"I put it down in the laundry myself."

"I'll check, you know. I can count them down there."

"If you do, you'll find them all present and correct.” Jonathan was anxious to get back to his musings and tried to close the door.

He found the toe of Tex's boot in the way. “Charlie next door has three towels now and he don't answer his door and I know he's in there and you tell him that if I don't get his towels by tomorrow he ain't getting any clean ones no more until I do just tell him to throw them out in the hallway and I'll look after them if ever you miss me just throw your towel out in the hall and I'll see that it gets put where it's supposed to go.” Jonathan had lost count of the amount of times Tex had admonished him to throw his used towels into the hallway. Tex took towels very seriously.

Jonathan looked closely at Tex and observed the slight, unhealthy flush over the pallor of his cheeks. His nose had a bulbous red tip, and there were broken veins all over it and the rest of his face. Tex's hands trembled constantly. His eyes were permanently bloodshot. Involuntary twitches afflicted his face and body. There was a tic in the left eye.

Could Tex be the first disciple?

You had to start somewhere.

"Do you believe in God?"

Tex took his boot out of the door and stepped back a pace. “Ah, yeah ... no ... I dunno ... maybe ... nah."

"Is that a yes or a no?"

Tex's bloodshot eyes took on a crafty look. “Sometimes Mrs. O'Reilly gives me a couple of dollars when I pray with her. I let her believe she's saving me mortal soul. Makes her feel good about herself, see? I didn't have you picked as a holy roller, but."

"What would you say if I told you I saw God?"

Tex was silent for a moment as he digested what he'd just heard. “I'd ask you for a bottle of what you was drinkin’ at the time."

"I saw God and he gave me a message for everyone on Earth. He said that unless we reform, he'll disinherit us all."

"Aw, gawd, ere we go. I know, I've got to give up the booze."

"It's not just about you, it's about everybody."

"Everybody's got to give up the booze?"

"It's not just about booze. It's about everything."

"Everything?"

"Yes, everything.” He reacted to Tex's blank look. “There's more to life than towels, believe it or not, and more to life than booze."

Tex licked his lips. “If I pray with yer, could yer let me, you know, have a couple of dollars, like?” His voice had taken on the wheedling tone of the experienced panhandler. “You could sort of help me out a bit here, couldn't yer?” Tex's feet were doing the panhandler's shuffle. His right hand went palm up and started to tentatively extend out from his body. “I mean, you're supposed to give to the poor when you're a Christianity, ain't yer?"

"I don't have any money. Why can't you understand what I'm telling you?"