The Weapon - Resurrection - part 14
By Diana the Valkyrie
Dead chickens and transubstantiation
Update: 03/06/2003 to valkyrie05


I stared, aghast. "But you're, you're. A Satanist. And he's a Christian. How
can you play golf together?" "Sure, but that's just professional, no reason
why we can't get along on a personal level. Hey, we're competitors, we don't
need to get into fist fights." I surreptitiously wiped my knuckles against my
trousers. "Oh."

"We have our service on Sunday morning, same as the competition," he said, "so
when she came through the door, it was afternoon, and there was only me here,
wiping up the blood." "I've been meaning to ask you about that." "Chicken
blood, we sacrifice a chicken each Sunday, you have a problem with that?"
"Well, it is sort of, well, barbaric. Nasty." "And eating the body and blood
of a Messiah isn't?" "Look, it was just a biscuit and some rather cheap
plonk." "Yeah, right. Google up "transubstantiation"; it tastes like biscuit
and wine, but it's actually human flesh. They claim. Anyway, we kill a
chicken. It's all over very quickly for the bird, and there's millions killed
each year for food, a few more shouldn't really make that much difference."

I grunted. I ate chicken, I couldn't really object to someone else doing
something similar.

"So she came through the door, it would have been nice if she'd opened it
first, but she was absolutely hysterical, I couldn't get any sense out of her
to start with."

"I'll pay for the door." "Don't worry, I can get a new one for a few pounds.
But that's how come I find it very easy to believe that she's who you say she
is. Ordinary people don't just smash down doors, they usually turn the
handle." How true. "I couldn't get her to calm down until I lit a candle and
got down on my knees to Satan, and then she dropped down next to me, and we
prayed together. Then I got her to tell me what this was all about. And when
she did, I told her I'd do a service to Satan, just for her, and we'd
sacrifice another chicken, and I let her cut its throat, that's why she's all
bloody. It gets her more involved in the thing, you know?"

I nodded. Audience participation.

"So then she started offering Satan her soul in exchange for Duncan, so that
Duncan could go to heaven and she'd replace him in hell, but I explained to
her that it doesn't work that way, so she asked me how to get to hell, and I
was explaining some of the ways." "She didn't mean to ask how to sin, she was
asking route directions." "Yes, that became clear quite soon, but hell isn't a
place, it's more a state of mind, I think." "You think?" "Well, one can hardly
be certain, can one? One has to have faith." "Yes. But do you think she has a
soul?" "How would I know? My guess is, anyone or anything that's capable of
wondering whether it has a soul or not, probably does have one. If anyone
does." I sighed.

"Look," said Jim, "I'm not going to twist your arm on this or anything, but if
you're at a loose end next Sunday, you'd be welcome to join our little
congregation for the next Black Mass, and we're having a bit of a dance and
social afterwards, and if you'd bring a bottle and some nibbles, that would be
great."

Wendy was still standing. She'd been listening, of course, but I think she was
suffering from information overload. I looked up at her. "Do you have any
questions?" She shook her head. I stood up and took her hand. "Come on, then.
Things to do, places to visit. We'll just be getting along." "Jolly nice to
see you," said Jim, "now don't be a stranger in future." I nodded and grunted,
non-committally.

"David, before we go?" "What?" "I gave all my money to St Hildas. And I'd like
to do another candle and a prayer." "No no no," said Jim, "wouldn't hear of
it. This one's on me."

We went back into the main room; the candles had mostly burned out by now, but
the sickly-sweet smell of incense cloyed the air. Jim arranged five candles in
a fivefold candlestick. Wendy lit them with a spark from each of her fingers,
and I made a mental note to ask her how she did that. I could see that it
impressed Jim, too. Then she closed her eyes, and sank down to her knees. We
knelt on either side of her.

"I don't know who you are. I don't even know if you're there. I don't know if
you're God, or Satan, or Jesus, or Lucifer, or no-one at all. But please.
Please. Please be nice to Duncan, wherever he is now?" I looked across at Jim,
I could see the tears in his eyes. Then she was silent.

We knelt there for five or ten minutes. I was thinking about what I'd planned
to do next, and wondering if my good intentions were just getting her deeper
and deeper into the slough of despondency. But I couldn't stop now, I couldn't
leave her in this state. Surely nothing could be worse than thinking that
Duncan is burning in hell for all eternity. I had to press on with this. After
a while, I took her hand, and whispered, "Wendy?" She turned her head towards
me. There were tears at the corners of her eyes. "Wendy, would you like a
hug?" She nodded, and I hugged her, still on our knees.

We left together; I dropped a couple of fivers in the box on the way out. I
got Wendy seated in my car, then got in myself. "David, I am so confused."
"Yeah," I replied, "so is most of the human race. Wendy, this religion thing
isn't simple." She sighed. "I know how to break things. I'm a Weapon. I'm out
of my depth here. This isn't anything I understand. It's all faith, but how do
you know what to have faith in?" "I'll tell you something, Wendy. There's none
of us understand this stuff either." And I stopped the car. Outside another
place of worship. "Third time lucky, Wendy." "What?" "Old superstition. When
you fail twice, you're more likely to succeed the third time." "But that's
absurd ... " she started to say.