The Fabulous Beast (8 page)

Sacrificial Anode

‘Is this about the clowns?’ I said. ‘Because I’m already getting help for that.’

On the other side of a large desk sat his Grace the Bishop of Walsingham, very imposing figure of a man. I’m told you need to be fairly ruthless to reach bishopdom. There was a lot of purple covering his chest, and a red sash too which my mother would have told him clashed with his vest, and a few bits of gold jewellery, and a wooden cross on a piece of string around his neck. We’d already talked about the cross: apparently it was bamboo and came from the South Pacific islands. A gift, he’d told me, from his parishioners – presumably when he was a lowly priest.

‘No James, this is not about the clowns.’

‘It’s a psychological problem, I’ve been told. I was probably frightened by clowns when I was little – too little to remember, actually, because I
don’t
remember it. I’ve never really liked clowns – you know, never found them funny and all that. They’ve always scared me.  Then I got to wondering why, and got myself into this state of mind.’

‘Nothing to do with all that – quite another matter entirely.’

The bishop was overweight and shiny faced. His hair was grey and cut short so that the bristles stood on end. I could see myself in his yellow-tinted and highly-polished spectacles: two of me, one in each lens. He was one of those remote people I try to avoid because there’s nothing much you can talk to them about. They live in a different world to ordinary people like me. That’s why I had raised the subject of the wooden cross earlier, rather than sit back in silence while he fiddled with papers.

‘And it’s not because I’m between religions at the moment?’

The bishop looked horrified at this. ‘Good heavens, no. I had no idea.’ He glanced at a piece of paper on his desk. ‘I thought you were currently a member of the Religious Society of Friends – a Quaker?’

‘No, I have trouble with worshiping in silence. A whole
hour
, for goodness sakes. I prefer words – litanies and stuff like that, though I’ve heard that African Quakers are pretty keen on singing and dancing.’

The bishop shuddered. ‘Are they? I wouldn’t know.’

‘Oh yes. It’s in their souls. You can’t stop them.’

When I was told I was coming here today, sent by my psycho-analyst, I was convinced it was about the clowns. You see, I’ve got to pretend I’m getting better, that I’m being cured. They all think I’m crazy, which I’m not: I’m still convinced clowns are disguised aliens invading earth. I mean, there seems to be more of them around every time you look. And what better disguise than all that make-up? And what better camouflage than baggy clothes and monster shoes if you’re not quite the same shape as a human? When you look at a clown you can see he’s misshapen: bulbous head, usually, and long stringy arms. I’ve already mentioned the feet, but there’s the general outline of them, which is sort of pear-shaped. That’s no human under all that: it has to be an extra-terrestrial, an alien. One that has great difficulty with facial expressions and proper laughter. One whose emotions (if they have any at all) are quite different from ours.

‘The world is split into two types of people,’ I revealed to the bishop. ‘Those who are terrified of clowns – and clowns.’

The bishop raised his eyebrows.

‘I’m in the first group,’ I informed him. ‘I’m a clown-phobic, or whatever the proper name for it is. I expect you’d guessed that. Come on, admit it. They frighten you too, don’t they?’

‘This-is-not-about-the-clowns!’

His voice had a horrible even sound to it.

‘OK, then what?’

‘James, listen to me. Are you listening to me? You’re not an unintelligent young man . . .’

‘Obsessions mostly attack fairly bright people,’ I said.

‘Exactly!’ He spread his chubby hands as if he wanted me to inspect his palms. ‘You
are
a bright person. That’s why you’ve been chosen. We’re mounting an expedition. The second one.’ He sighed. ‘Needless to say the first one failed, or we wouldn’t need to risk going again. James, we need you. We have to take a sacrificial anode on the trip, to leave the other members of the expedition free to study the environment and gather information.’

‘Where are we going?’ I asked, not with any trepidation you understand. I’m not short of courage. ‘It sounds exciting.’

‘You apparently know what a sacrificial anode is?’ he seemed surprised, even though we’d just agreed I was quite intelligent.’

‘Um, yes. They have them on boats and ships. In the case of ocean-going craft the sacrificial anode is a piece of chemically treated metal attached to the hull near the screw. It attracts all the corrosive elements in the sea water, leaving the propeller relatively untarnished. When the anode is thoroughly corroded it’s removed and thrown away and a new one put in its place. Much cheaper than throwing away propellers.’

The bishop looked pleased. ‘Well, you
are
clever, James.
I
didn’t know what a sacrificial anode was until it was explained to me.’

I didn’t say
why doesn’t that surprise me
.

‘OK,’ I replied, guardedly.

‘The way they explained it to me was by using an analogy with honey and bees.’

It was my turn to raise some eyebrows.

The bishop continued. ‘Well, let’s say the government sent an expedition to the South American jungle, where there are terrible insects –
killer bees
– which might endanger members of the expedition. You would be the man who would be smeared with honey so that the bees attack you, leaving the other members of the party to gather rare plants or animals, or whatever it is they’re there to collect.’

‘So I’d be stung to death?’

‘Not necessarily. You could be detoxified afterwards. They wouldn’t sacrifice you to that extent. But you would have to undergo a lot of pain in the furtherance of knowledge. That’s what we’re asking you to do now. To volunteer for this expedition in the role of sacrificial anode. I’m told you’re a very brave man. You served in the army, didn’t you? In the recent wars? As a lieutenant? Earned a few medals, I’m informed. Saved a few lives? That’s what we’re asking here.’

Nearly got my head blown off, more like, but I didn’t say it.

‘I’m more interested in the pay. My shrink said you would pay me well. He’s a friend of yours isn’t he? Doctor Franks?’

‘Yes, he is. You will be amply rewarded.’

The bishop named a figure which sounded good. Despite all the medals I’d got in the Middle East, I was still a poor man. The army only pay you your wages, they don’t give bonuses for knocking out enemy strongholds while caught in crossfire. That’s just part of the job. You do if for the honour of the regiment and salute the colours proudly when they give you this shiny coin on the end of a piece of ribbon and expect you to be satisfied. I
was
proud of myself at the time, but now I needed folding green, or brown, or whatever colour the notes.

‘Why me,’ I asked, as I leaned back in the chair, ‘apart from the fact that I’m a hero and I’m very suspicious of clowns?’

The bishop cleared his throat, before speaking.

‘Apparently you fit the bill, James. Your doctor tells us you have an absorbent personality, spiritually that is. I understand you’ve been through – that’s a horrible expression but I will use it – through several religions. You find one, you absorb it, then you move on to the next?’

‘I can’t quite make up my mind which is best for me.’

‘Understandable, from one whose well of spirituality seems bottomless. Ahem, the fact is, the person we need for this expedition – as the sacrificial anode – needs to be just that – an absorbent personality. Someone who can soak up
passion
like a sponge. You see James, we’ve found a way to enter Heaven.’

I stared at him. ‘You’re kidding me?’

‘No,’ he said carefully, now spreading those plump white hands on the desktop, palms down, as if imprinting them, ‘not at all. We have discovered a way in, a way to visit while still enjoying this life. Unfortunately, those who went on the first expedition returned in a highly-intoxicated state, permanently drunk on
joy
. We can get no real sense out of them. Their emotional state is critical. They will never recover. You, on the other hand, we can expect to be
stunned
for a while, but your doctor assures us you will stand every chance of returning to full emotional stability after a period of readjustment. It seems you have a resilient soul.’

After my meeting with the bishop I was sent back to my psycho-analyst. This doctor was a genius: he often said so himself. By the time I left him again I felt very odd. It was as if within me I had a black hole which had collapsed below a critical value, to the point where it was impossible for any other feelings to escape. Just as light was unable to escape the gravitational pull from a black hole in space, so my soul could only suck emotions into itself and add to its own critical mass, containing them inside the equivalent of an event horizon. I knew I was a walking magnet for any
feelings
which might be loose in the ether.

Once back in the bishop’s clutches I found I was forbidden any further visitors. I was allowed see no one until the expedition left for Heaven.  One week later they came for me and took me to the portal, which was surprisingly a heathen shrine to a Celtic nature god on top of a high mist-shrouded hill. There they dressed me in a white shift.

‘This flimsy thing won’t protect me from killer bees,’ I joked with the two ordained young men.

They ignored me, simply holding my wrists gently, as they steered me into a tunnel formed by the mist. They walked me forward and it felt as if there were something spongy beneath my feet. Touching the cloudy walls of the tunnel I found them soft but unyielding. One of the young men explained that they had – at last – found a way to enter the Spiritual Kingdom. ‘It’s no longer necessary to
die
to get into the Afterlife,’ said the first young man, ‘we’ve discovered the route and can go there when we like. Of course it’s not an easy place to visit. We haven’t yet
evolved.
We’re not spiritually mature enough to withstand the emotional onslaught.’

To my consternation I found the pathway along the tunnel seemed to be sloping downward. What was this? Was I being too trusting? Maybe this was a very different kind of expedition than the one described by the bishop? I froze and dug in my heels, alarm bells jangling in my head, thinking
they’re taking me down, instead of up.

‘You’re leading me to Hell!’ I accused them.

The pair looked shocked. They then took pains to explain to me that it was an optical illusion. Pathways to Heaven were by their nature strange and wonderful. It only seemed as if we were on a downward slope. In fact the way was quite steeply upward. Could I not feel it in the calves of my legs, in my thigh muscles? I was climbing, not descending.

I realised they were right.

By now I realised others had joined us. There were, I suppose, about a dozen in all besides myself, one or two women amongst them.

The young man on my right continued to explain our mission.

‘Those souls who ascend after death have undergone a transition. Their spirits are able to withstand, absorb and yes, even relish a tremendous bombardment of Heavenly Joy. They are in a state of being able to accept the flood of Eternal Love. They are able to be saturated by levels of happiness and sorrow never before experienced by a human soul.’

He paused before adding, ‘But we are the living, we are the quick not the dead, and have not been prepared for such a fierce attack of pathos and pleasure. Our souls are not ready.  The first expedition found that out to their cost. They’re shattered, emotionally, even the women priests who ordinarily are much more able to cope with such an onslaught . . .’

Another terrible thought then struck me.

‘We’re going to be judged,’ I said. ‘God will find me guilty.’

One of the young men shook his head. ‘God only judges those who have entered the Afterlife by the usual path – one has to live one’s life out to the full before one can be judged. Who knows what a man or woman might do with the rest of their time? Bad things, good things? No, you have to die before your soul can come before the Lord for judgement.’

We were stumbling along now as they led me up what appeared to be a long white lane lined with dark trees. I could see my old friend the bishop striding forth in the front, seemingly eager to reach our destination.

‘Will we see him?’ I asked. ‘Will we see – God?’

The young man at his left hand answered. ‘One does not
see
God – one simply feels his presence, but here we are . . . oh, look,’ continued the young man in a voice devoid of any amazement or emotion, ‘an angel.’ I knew that all the other members of the expedition had undergone psychological training. An attempt at giving them some impermeability to emotion in order to witness but not to feel wonder.

I however stopped and stared in great awe. There was a magnificent creature standing at the entrance to Heaven, so beautiful it made me want to cry. It was at least twelve feet tall and dressed only in a shimmering light that hung from its form as crystal water hangs from a high waterfall. Its face was beset with the loveliest features I had ever encountered, especially its unparalleled pair of brilliant eyes that shone with Fathomless Love.

The angel lifted its pale hands in a gesture of welcome as the expedition walked under its arms to enter Heaven itself, where there were many such enthralling creatures at various tasks.

There were also of course the souls of the dead who had been Good Enough during life on Earth to be permitted to enter into the High Kingdom.

Here, I found to my cost, there was nothing
but
Love. In some forms it was drenched in sadness, in others swollen with happiness. There was Love of every type and measure, some which had been known down on Earth, others only experienced in the afterlife. Love filled the atmosphere as would moisture in a humid climate. It dripped from high places and hanging walls. It gushed from the gutters of Heaven and overflowed into its white-light lanes. It flowed along the pathways of the Eternal Kingdom and swilled under its bridges. It bloomed on the trees it blossomed in the flowers. It swirled as mist around our feet, it fell as glistening mizzle from above.