Dead & Godless (12 page)

“Would
you still say that God has rigged the game?”

“God
still knows,” answered Corwin. “I wouldn’t want to gamble against him.”

“And
that makes you wiser than Lucifer, but the question remains: If one’s choices
are more than the result of physical circumstance, then where is the conflict? Is
it not possible for God to know one’s decisions without compelling them?”

“Perhaps
it’s possible. I don’t know!” Corwin knocked the ball from its slot beside the
treasure, consigning it again to a watery grave. “Either way, that doesn’t
absolve your god from dooming people. As you said, he starts the ball rolling,
fully aware of how the game ends.”

“And
now we get to the real issue!” declared Ransom. “You see, your argument isn’t
actually about what’s possible.”

“And
what, according to you, is my argument about?”

“It’s
about what’s
fair.”

Pausing
a moment to digest the angel’s words, Corwin found that he didn’t entirely
disagree.

“If
you’re saying that I think god judging us is unfair, then sure I do! How can
you defend a supposedly loving father who chooses to create souls that he knows
will be damned? Any reasonable person would hold god responsible.”

“I
never said that he wasn’t.”

“You’re
doing that thing again, that thing where you agree with me and then flip my
position upside-down!” huffed Corwin. “The point is that if god is responsible,
then he has no right to pass judgment on us.”

“Responsibility
is a little more complex than that.”

With
a pealing flash, the carnival disappeared. Corwin heard the rapid scratch of
pencils against paper and a teacher’s strict voice.

“Ten
minutes to go,” she announced.

“I
remember this place,” said Corwin, recognizing the yellow cinderblock walls and
plywood desks.

“Your
old high school, Room 303, senior year,” said Ransom as he strode invisibly
between the students. Hunched over their papers, they jotted formulas in a rush
to beat the clock. “You elected to take an AP course in calculus, and while you
managed to pass, this particular test wasn’t your finest hour.”

He
stopped at a desk beside the windows. A teenage Corwin was tapping his pencil
anxiously, his brow furrowed in thought.

“That’s
right,” said Corwin. “I failed a calculus test, though I don’t see what this
has to do with our debate.”

“You’re
too hard on yourself, Corwin. Are you sure that the responsibility for that
failure lies with you? Perhaps we ought to blame the teacher who gave you the
test, or perhaps Isaac Newton!”

“I’d
call that a bit of a stretch.”

“Yet
it’s true, isn’t it?” pressed Ransom. “If no one had introduced the world to
calculus, you would never have had to study it, and thus would never have
failed your test.”

“Somehow
I doubt that Newton foresaw my high school test results.”

“Would
it matter if he had? Intentional or not, actions have consequences. Newton deserves a share in the blame, as does God.”

The
classroom evaporated, returning them to the trodden grass, crowded booths and
twanging guitars of the carnival big top. Ransom grabbed the pachinko ball off the
board and spun it on the tip of his finger.

“In
the ultimate sense, the Father is responsible for everything. However, God’s
ultimate responsibility does not erase man’s proximate responsibility, no more
than Newton's part in the discovery of calculus erases the fact that you didn’t
study enough for your test.”

He
yanked his hand out from under the ball and Corwin reflexively reached to catch
it.

“Direct
fault still lies with you,” said Ransom as his client fumbled, the ball
slipping through his fingers.

Corwin
bent to retrieve it from the grass.

"Responsibility
isn't simple. It's not purely either-or. On that I agree. But even if god
doesn't force us to hang ourselves, you'd think he could have given us a little
less rope. And isn't the penalty for losing this game too high?"

“Let’s
not get ahead of ourselves. The Last Things are yet to come.”

“Then
perhaps you can answer my second point, because it seems that there’s one
critical choice that I don’t get to make.”

“And
what choice is that?”

Corwin
tossed the ball back to its startled owner, whose effort to catch it sent him
toppling backwards in his chair.

“Whether
or not I want to play.”

With
a deep look, Ransom strolled from the booth.

“To
choose whether one comes into existence or not . . . Now there’s a real
paradox!”

He
sniffed the air and his hawkish gaze sharpened.

“Is
that homemade apple cider?”

At a
busy stall on the other side of the concert’s seating area, a curly-haired
woman was pulling drinks from a large oaken keg. Ransom growled hungrily. And
faster than his client could say “evolution,” he was off, blazing a trail
towards the keg with laser-like focus.

“I'll
give him this,” uttered Corwin. “He’s a man who knows what he wants.”

He
started after his attorney, but a haunting sense of unease brought him abruptly
to a stop. Someone was watching him. A brisk, whispering gust blew back his
hair as he peered out into the gloom. Fairgoers were coming and going, drawn to
and from the big top as if swept along on lazy rivers. All seemed to be in
perpetual motion. All except for one man.

Beyond
the threshold, where the tent’s glow bled to night, he stood unnaturally still,
his dark, unblinking eyes pinning Corwin with a soulless stare. Corwin
swallowed hard. He wanted to run or shout for Ransom, but he couldn't move,
couldn't pull his gaze away. The man’s stare held him like a vice, and he
remembered. Those eyes. He’d seen them once before—a reflection in a window on
a bright autumn day.

The
stranger was tall and gaunt, with a bald head and wrinkled skin as pale as a
corpse. His suit and tie were woven of purest pitch, as though light feared to
fall upon him, and there was a falseness to his features. Corwin could feel it.
The man was a lie, a mask, a monster in a meat suit.

He
radiated a silent malice, calm and assured. No one else existed. Not the
crowds, nor even Ransom. He and Corwin alone were real. And he saw everything,
knew
everything, with eyes opened wide—too wide, as if he had no eyelids at all. A
hideous smile creased his lips.

Corwin
momentarily lost sight of him as a family walked between them. And when they
had passed, like a phantom, the dark-eyed stranger was gone.

A Savior to Some

“You look like
you’ve see a ghost,” said Ransom, handing his client a cup of piping hot apple
cider.

“And if
I have?”

“It’s
certainly possible,” Ransom shrugged. “Some would say that you’re haunting this
carnival as we speak.”

Corwin
forced a smile, but didn’t laugh. The memory was too fresh, his nerves frayed
and raw.

“What
if it wasn’t a ghost? What if it was . . . something else?”

The
angel’s gaze thinned as he surveyed the crowd.

“If
there was a presence here, it’s gone now. I’m not sensing anything unusual.”

“No
disturbances in the Force?”

“Fear
not, young padawan.” Ransom turned for the yawning flaps of the tent. “Let’s
get some fresh air.”

Upon
finding a bench, he sat himself down and reached for his trusty flask, topping
off the cider with a generous pour. He extended it to Corwin, who eyed its
brushed metal finish uncertainly. A little something to take the edge off was
tempting, but he decided against it.

“I’d
hate to see what would happen if you ever ran out of liquor,” remarked Corwin
as his attorney sipped the cider, judged it half a jigger short of the golden
ratio, and set immediately to remedying the situation.

“There’s
a man with the right idea!” declared a scruffy fellow who happened by. “I would
drink to your health, good sir, but I seem to have run dry.”

He
wasn’t talking about cider, of which he had a mostly full cup. From his jacket
appeared a leather-wrapped flask, held upside-down, one last whiskey teardrop
falling sadly from its lip.

“Well
don’t let that stop you!” Ransom offered his own flask in an act of angelic
charity, but as the man leaned near, he yanked it back. “But be warned, this stuff
packs quite a punch! Just one sip, and you’re liable to wake up with the kind
of hangover that makes a man rethink his life.”

Far
from dissuaded, their newfound friend only smiled all the wider.

“Sounds
like my kind of poison!”

While
Ransom spiked the man’s cider, another passerby took notice, stopping some feet
away. Thirsty eyes panned slowly from his plastic cup to the bourbon, then back
again.

Unable
to resist, Ransom raised his voice.

“Step
right up! Free drinks all around!”

It
didn't take long for a small, boisterous crowd to gather, the circle of drunks
toasting Ransom, each other, the night, and just about anything that came to
mind. Corwin sat back and watched the proceedings with a mixture of admiration
and chagrin.

“Jesus
may have fed five thousand, but with that bottomless flask of yours, you could
make a true believer out of every alcoholic on the planet.”

Ransom
fished his cigarette case from his breast pocket.

“Don’t
forget that I’ve also got an endless supply of smokes.”

At
his side, a man gawped in slack-jawed amazement.

“There
is a God!”

The
angel eyed Corwin. “Now why can’t you be more like our friend here?”

Ten
minutes later and the party had died down. A snoring vagabond slumped on the
bench between them. Half a dozen others lay curled up on the ground, passed out
like a troop of jolly narcoleptics.

“Can't
say I didn't warn them,” Ransom intoned.

Across
the grassy lane, a handful of children raced up the drawbridge of Lucky’s
Castle, disappearing beneath the white teeth and scarlet lips of a clown’s
gaping maw. Part fun house and part obstacle course, the castle zigzagged up
four stories, complete with a climbing net, a mirror maze, rotating tunnel rooms
and even a teetering rope bridge tethered with bungee cords. The last was suspended
between twin guard towers that rose from either end of the castle walls.

Plexiglas
windows gave a glimpse of the hectic romp. Some children dashed through the
rooms, playfully shoving their friends, intent on being first to reach the top.
Others tackled the course at a more measured pace. One rung at a time, they
grappled up the slope of the climbing net, making steady progress while hastier
children thrashed, arms and legs entangled in the ropes.

“What
if we’re both wrong?” supposed Corwin. “About humans having free will, I mean.”

“Determinism
has a comforting ring to it,” said Ransom. “It must be nice to look upon all
the depraved deeds of mankind and be able to say ‘they cannot help but act as
they do,’ though it must be a nuisance as well.”

“How
can it be both?”

“To
live in a world without heroes or villains, ever reminding one’s self that
responsibility is fiction, that there are no persons, only processes, despite everything
in the core of your being crying out to the contrary . . . Such self-imposed brainwashing
hardly seems worth the effort.”

“The
only good reason to believe something is if it’s true,” Corwin reminded him.
“If free will isn’t, then there’s no greater waste of effort than religion.”

“Without
free will, there’s no such thing as wasted effort, only the inevitable turning
of the gears.”

Atop
the castle a mischievous boy was leaping on the suspension bridge, sending
great ripples through the cords. The sudden dip and rise caused some to lose
their balance and plummet into the ball pit below, but all eventually made it
to one of the two slides, red and yellow, that corkscrewed down from the
right-hand tower.

“Reason
alone cannot disprove the determinist who claims that choice is a lie, nor the
relativist who rejects moral absolutes,” continued Ransom. “But such creeds
always fail the test of real life. You won't have much luck finding a parent
who denies evil or accountability when it comes to their child getting abused.”

“You
won't have much luck finding a parent who chooses to ‘love your enemies’ in
that situation either,” said Corwin. “You’ve been around for a while. How many
true
Christians have you met?”

“Of
halfhearted Christians I've met plenty, but saints?” Ransom gave a snort. “I can
count those deserving of the title on one hand. Not being numbered among them is
the deepest regret that lingers in the hearts of many in Heaven.”

“I
didn’t think there were regrets in Heaven.”

“There
are thieves and murderers in Heaven! But their regrets are not earthly regrets.
Knowing their past sins only increases their joy at the Father’s boundless
mercy.”

“You’re
telling me that there are murderers in Heaven, and yet I—who died saving a
man’s life, no less—might not be allowed in?”

Corwin
scoffed at the notion.

“That's
the biggest difference between you and the saints,” said Ransom. “You think
that you deserve Heaven.” He scrunched the empty cup in his hand. “Hell is full
of the tragically underappreciated.”

The
cup bounced off the rim and into the trash bin. On his feet again, Ransom
struck off across the grass. Hot spice burned in Corwin’s throat as he chugged
the last of his cider, not wishing to be left behind.

An
attendant with spiky orange hair was tearing tickets in front of Lucky’s Castle.
Between the line of impatient children and the music blaring through his
headphones, he would scarcely have noticed a marching band parading at his
back, much less Corwin and Ransom as they stepped nonchalantly through the
gate.

“Do
we really have to go in there?” asked Corwin.

He
skirted aside, giving way to little boys and girls that bounded up the
drawbridge and into the menacing jaws of the clown. A curtain of black rubber
strips hid the inner castle from view.

“It’s
too late to turn back now,” said Ransom.

Just
behind them at the gate, it finally occurred to the attendant that two children
were rather larger than the rest.

“Hey,
you two! You’re not supposed to–”

Ransom
drew back the curtain.

“Ransom?”

“I’m
right here,” called the angel, his voice a beacon in the ink-black gloom.

Hearing
a low hum, Corwin glanced down. Veins of blue light pulsed through the floor,
bending and branching at sharp angles, tracing a strip of circuitry. Their feeble
glow gave little clue as to the surrounding shadows, though the pattern
suggested a corridor. The pulse faded into the distance and primordial darkness
returned, its rule lasting but a few brief seconds before the cycle repeated.

There
was a snap and a
scratch-hiss
, the flare of a tiny flame igniting the
cigarette on Ransom’s lips. He took a drag and spoke, only his voice sounded heavier
than his usual, easygoing self.

“The
Paradox of Evil, more commonly called the Problem of Evil, is perhaps the
oldest, most natural and most compelling argument that your kind has raised
against the Father. Tell me your understanding of it.”

“It’s
compelling because it’s something we’ve all felt in life,” said Corwin. “You
don’t need a degree in philosophy to grasp it. Just turn on the news! Wars,
poverty, disease, famine, slavery, natural disasters . . . How anyone can look
at our world and yet believe in a loving god is beyond me.”

“There
is much pain in life,” agreed Ransom, “The trials of the mortal world are many,
and though you bring most of them upon yourselves, the Father’s silence in the
face of grave evil is difficult to understand.”

“Difficult?
I’d call it sobering.” Corwin’s bitter words reverberated in the darkness. “To
witness true evil is to know that there is no god watching over us. A loving
god wouldn't stand idly by while people slaughtered each other, while families
were torn apart and children left to starve.”

“Your
passion is noted,” Ransom said curtly. “Now speak plainly the logic of your
paradox.”

“Logically,
the paradox is simple. No one wishes evil upon those they love. Either god
loves us but cannot end suffering, in which case he is not omnipotent, or god
can end suffering but chooses not to, in which case he is not all-loving.”

“Very
good.”

They
walked for a short time in silence. Corwin could guess what was coming. His
attorney would make the argument that love required free will, and free will
entailed the possibility of evil. It sounded like a tidy explanation, but it
wasn’t enough. Protecting a child from a pedophile was more important than
protecting the pedophile’s free will. Every just society put limits on
behavior. Wouldn’t a just god do the same?

A
column of ash grew on the end of Ransom’s cigarette. Stopping, he arched his
neck and blew a smoke ring.

“There's
just one thing I'd like some clarification on. Supposing that an all-loving God
with the power to stop evil ought to do so, how much evil should he stop? Where
do you draw the line?”

“At
the very least, he could prevent mass murders! Take the school shooting that
happened just a few months back. Where was god when that psychopath killed
almost twenty kids? If I’d had the power, you can be damn sure that I would
have done something. I’d say that makes me a better person than your almighty
father.”

“So
it’s about the scale of the bloodshed? God should intervene once the potential
death toll rises above a magic number?”

The
threading light paused beneath them, then flowered into a pattern that rapidly
expanded in all directions. This space was no corridor. It was huge. Ramping
off the floor, the lasers outlined buildings and cars and more until a whole wireframe
city had taken shape. When it was complete, a wave of digital paint clothed the
naked world in pixels, their resolution increasing, blocky edges smoothing
until it was impossible to distinguish illusion from reality.

“So
that’s how it is. This isn’t a dream
or
the afterlife,” Corwin thought
aloud. “I’m in the
Christian Matrix!”

Standing
in the center of the road, he could hear little over the cacophony of what
sounded like a hundred police sirens blaring at once. Cruisers choked the
lanes. Several were already parked to his left and right with more showing up
every second, and soon the whole street was blockaded for half a mile. The
sirens cut out as the deputy chief raised his megaphone, pointing it towards the
stalwart columns of the First National Bank.

“We’ve
got the building surrounded! Release the hostages, lay down your weapons and
come out with your hands up!”

He
was answered by the furious rattle of machinegun fire, bullets blowing out the
windows and punching holes in his cruiser.

“Jesus
Christ!” he swore as he hunkered behind the car.

“You
called?”

Sandaled
feet appeared before the deputy’s eyes. Looking up, he saw Jesus, the Lord
garbed in his signature white robe and red sash. His expression was warm and
relaxed, and he stood without any regard for the bullets buzzing past.

“Lord,
it sure is great to see you! A group of gunmen tried to knock over the bank and
started shooting the place up. Now they’re holding twenty five people hostage
inside, although I’m sure you already knew that.”