re-cycled,’ said the gaelic cherub.
‘Recycled?’ asked the Elements. ‘Is that what goes back into the First-Creator’s sack?’
The voice, of Scottish ancestry, for once laughed. ‘You cud say that. Though, A’m nae sae sure how amusin’ the First-Creator wid find yir analogy.’
‘And what about the part that goes to Purgatory?’ asked Permission.
‘Ach, aye. The nae-sae-gid portion,’ said the cherub. ‘Weel, that gets sorted oot a little mair, an’ some’ll be recycled, and the rest…weel, we ken where thon gaes too, don’t we?’
‘So your really just like a scrap merchant?’ asked the dragon. ‘Stripping out the more valuable metals and reselling them?’
‘Aye,’ agreed the brogue. ‘Ye cud say that. Noo, if ye’ve nae’thin else, we’ll just git startit.’
‘Hold on!’ said Shylock. ‘You can’t break us up. We’re not meant to be here.’
‘Och aye, that’s whit they awe say,’ laughed the cherubic brogue. ‘Come on noo, let’s no be wearisome.’
‘No, no! You don’t understand,’ interrupted Permission. ‘We’re really not supposed to be here. We fell into the white-light by accident.’
‘We should be in Wilderment,’ added the Elements.
‘Wildurment?’ asked the Cherub. ‘Noo that’s a new yin on me. We haenae had anyone frae there since…let me think…Time packed his bags, n’ hit the heather – an’ that’s caused us an awfie shortfaw in raw-materials, ye ken.’
‘Raw-materials?’ asked Permission.
‘Aye. gid n’ bad soul-elements – the parts we need fir makin new creations,’ the Cherub explained.
‘Look,’ said Shylock. ‘Perhaps if we explain to you how we got here in the place, then perhaps you’ll be able to help us?’
‘Hmm, I suppose it widnae dae any harm tae listen,’ said the cherub. ‘Hoo-ever, ye’ll need tae be quick. A’ve a busy time ahead, then there’s a rerun of an auld ball-game showing soon, n’ A’ve promised the others A’d be back in time for it. A wish we cud get thon live games goin’ again. Ye’ve nae idea hoo many times A’ve seen these auld repeats. Still, beggars cannae be choosers.’
‘Surely with all your powers, you can restart the ball-games?’ asked Permission. ‘Doesn’t the First-Creator watch? Can’t he fix it?’
‘Och aye, he watches a’right. But were awe stuck with thon non-interventionist policy o’ his,’ explained the brogue. ‘Besides, have ye no heard how much thon players are asking fur!’
‘So,’ interrupted Shylock, wondering if the Cherub had also been influenced by Bb at some point. ‘Coming back to our own situation for a moment. It all started when I decided to fetch a carton of milk…’
Too hard
‘Fascinating. Thon’s the most original tale A’ve ever heard since I took up this wee job,’ said the cherub, genuinely impressed. ‘Now, can we pleeease get on wi’ the cleansing?’
‘But you can’t! Didn’t you listen? WE SHOULDN'T BE HERE,’ shouted Shylock.
‘Ah told ye, that’s what every-yin says. If Ah gave credence to awe the tales ah hear there widnae be ony resources available fur the First-Creator at awe. Every-yin thinks their innocent,’ explained the Scottish cherub.
‘But you can’t proceed….without my permission?’ said Permission.
‘Yir permission?’ asked the cherub. ‘And whit precisely is that?’
‘That, was the authority invested in me by the Creator, and I refuse to grant you permission to cleanse our souls without higher approval,’ Permission replied, with as much authority in her voice as she could muster, hoping that the Cherub wouldn't notice that she was not referring to the First Creator.
‘Hmm. the Creator?’ the cherub asked. ‘Wee’l, ye’ve got me there. This yins tae hard fur me. Wee’l need tae seek guidance.’
‘From the First-Creator?’ asked the Elements.
‘Gid grief, naw! ‘ said the brogue. ‘Wee’l call in ma supervisor.’
‘And he has more authority?’ asked Shylock.
‘Eye weel, in theory she dis,’ said the cherub. ‘But she disnae really ken whit gaes on here. She spends most o’ her time on paperwork and special projects currying favir wi’ her manager. However, she’s the richt yin fur me tae gang tae.’
‘How do we get to her?’ asked Shylock.
‘Och, she’s awready here. Remember, we’re awe yin aroun’ here. It’s just a matter o’ callin’ her like this,’ said the cherub. ‘A’ll jist bid oot o here, an’ pass ye’s o’er tae her the noo. Gid luck tae ye’s awe.’
‘Thank you,’ said Permission, not sure if she’d been heard.
First level supervision
As quickly as the Scot disappeared, another rather frosty voice picked up the conversation. ‘Why are you bothering me?’ asked a female voice, peremptorily. ‘I hope you have a good excuse!’
‘We need no excuse,’ said Permission, bravely. ‘We speak to you by right.’
‘In the white light, you have no rights,’ the new arrival rebuked, reasserting her authority.
‘I have rights everywhere. Divine rights, granted by the Creator and not subject to your, or anyone else’s authority, other than his own,’ Permission bluffed, surprising herself (and her companions) with her own strength of confidence as she stood her ground.
‘The Creator you say?’ repeated the newcomer, considering her situation. ‘Well, perhaps we could start again.’
‘Indeed, perhaps maybe we should,’ replied Permission, seizing the initiative again and introducing herself.
‘Ah, Permission. Yes, I’ve heard of you,’ the newcomer replied. ‘My name is Agatha, but everyone around here calls me Aunt Agatha, though I’m sure I don’t know why.’
Shylock spluttered.
‘So, as Angus told me….’, said Agatha.
‘Angus?’ asked Shylock.
‘Yes. The cherub who was supposed to be dealing with you,’ Aunt Agatha explained. ‘He obviously didn’t introduce himself. I’m afraid we’re under so much pressure at the moment, you know. It’s the usual story; too much work and insufficient resources. We’re all handling the work of several. It would be enough to kill a mortal, unfortunately that’s not an option open to us.’
‘Can’t you recruit some help?’ asked Shylock.
‘Oh, good heavens no!’ Agatha replied, shocked. ‘If we had any extra funds we wouldn’t waste it on more cherubs. We’d hire more Angels and Seraphs of course. And I tell you, I certainly wouldn’t be giving it to these ball-players either. No sir! And I’d put some into product development as well.’
The race to ask the resulting question was a three-way tie between the companions, resulting in Shylock winning by a short head. ‘Product development of what?
‘Why, everything; colour, form, movement, fragrance – all sorts of things, of course?’ Agatha replied. ‘Have you looked around here? Well, you know what I mean. There’s nothing here. Have you any idea what it’s like to live and work in such monotonous surroundings. The only physical manifestation we have is a television on which they all watch these blasted ball-game reruns!’
‘But,’ the Elements put forward tentatively. ‘Surely physical objects can’t exist in the white-light?’
‘Poppy-cock and hogs-wash!’ replied Agatha. ‘Multi-dimensional objects, and thought-objects like you are all familiar with, couldn’t exist here - that’s true.
But, I’m talking about non-dimensional, non-thought, non-worldly objects. Things which are designed to exist in white-light.’
‘You mean no-one has ever tried designing anything in white-light?’ asked the Elements.
‘Oh, yes. Everything we could ever want has already been designed, even some new fangled multi-dimensional digital-television for the ball games where you actually sit in the stands and watch the game live…supposed to be the latest and greatest,’ Agatha explained. ‘Anyway, we just don’t know how to make them.’
‘Materials?’ said the Elements, predicting Agat
ha’s problem.
‘Precisely,’ agreed Agatha. ‘The only raw-material we have is soul-matter, and you can’t make a wood-burning stove, or a tapestry wall-hanging out of that. Can you?’
Not knowing what to say to that, the companions remained silent, each thinking their own thoughts and allowing Agatha to continue..
‘Anyway,’ she said. ‘As interesting as my own problems are, that’s not why I was summoned. You say that you are here by accident, and that you should not be cleansed?’
‘No,’ said Permission. ‘I say that you do not have the necessary authority to cleanse us, and that instead, you should help us return to Wilderment.’
‘Oh, I’m afraid that really is impossible,’ said Aunt Agatha. ‘The only one who can do placements is my manager, someone you already know by the sounds of it - the First-Creator, and he only handles cleansed soul-matter due to the high risk of infection. His predecessor became infected, and had to be put down you see. Not something you would wish on anyone really.’
‘Put down! You mean executed?’ asked Shylock.
‘No, no!’ replied Agatha, horrified at the suggestion. ‘I mean sent to Purgatory, where infection is a pre-requisite for any appointment. Of course she wasn’t pleased with the demotion, but after all there has to be some sense of order. Besides, the other Seraphs wouldn’t work with her any more.’
‘The -Creator is a Seraph?’ asked Permission.‘And a woman?’
‘Yes, to both questions’ replied Agatha. ‘All of us Angels report to a Seraph, and my particular manager is one of the most senior on the Heavenly board of Governors, but unlike his