Tales of the Hidden World

  “Hey,” I said. “It’s the job. And never say never. I have to try . . . to make you see the light.”

  “Why?” said Jesus. “So that if I fall . . . you won’t feel so alone?”

  “Look at you,” I said, honestly angry for a moment. “You’re a mess. You could be King of the Jews, King of the World; and here you are, wandering around in the backside of nowhere, burned and blackened, and stinking so bad even the lizards won’t come anywhere near you. You’re better than this. You deserve better than this! Come on, after forty days and nights of fasting, your stomach must think your throat’s been cut. Turn some of these stones into loaves of bread and take the edge off, so we can talk properly. Enough is enough.”

  “Man shall not live by bread alone,” said Jesus, “but by every word God utters. Faith will restore you, long after bread is gone.”

  “Is this another of those bloody parables?” I said suspiciously.

  He sighed. “I can’t help feeling one of us is missing the point here.”

  I looked out across the desert. Blank and empty, hard and unyielding. “Why did you agree to come out into this awful place? You couldn’t have fasted at home?”

  “Too many interruptions,” he said. “Too many distractions. Too many people wanting this and needing that. I’m out here to think, to meditate, to understand where I’m going and why.”

  I snapped my fingers, and just like that we were transported to the holy city. Don’t ask which one; believe me when I tell you none of the cities were much to talk about, back then. I apparated to right at the top of the pinnacle of the temple. A long way up. And down. We both clung tightly to the pinnacle, with both hands. There was a strong wind blowing. Jesus glared at me.

  “What are we doing here? How am I supposed to meditate all the way up here? Take me back to the desert!”

  “Tempting first,” I said. “You want people to look up to you, don’t you? You said yourself, you have to do the miracles to get their attention. So: throw yourself down from here. All the way down . . . and God will send his angels to catch you and lower you safely to the ground. Now that would be a real showstopper of a miracle. No one would doubt you really are who you say you are, after that.”

  He clung tightly to the pinnacle, with a surprising amount of dignity, carefully not looking down. The wind blew his long messy hair into his face, but he still met my gaze firmly. “You don’t put God to the test. It’s all about faith.”

  “But He wouldn’t really let you get hurt, would he?”

  “He doesn’t interfere directly in the world, not even for me. Because if he did, that would be the end of free will, right there and then.”

  “Free will,” I said. I felt like spitting, but the wind was blowing right at me. “Wasted on mankind. But all right, on with the tempting. We’ve got better places to be.”

  Another snap of the fingers, and we were standing on the top of the highest mountain in the Holy Land. Which wasn’t much, as mountains go, but still, a nice view whichever way you looked. I had to jazz it up a bit, because I had a point to make. I gestured grandly about us.

  “See! All the kingdoms of the world, laid out before you! All of this I will give to you, to do with as you wish. Protect the people, care for them, raise them up, make them worthy! I will make you King of all the World, including a whole bunch of places you don’t even know exist yet, if you’ll just bow down and worship me. Instead of Him.”

  He looked out over the world for a long moment. “Can you really do that?” he said, not looking at me.

  “Yes,” I said. “I have been given special dispensation, from on high. The temptation has to be real, or it wouldn’t mean anything.”

  Jesus laughed quietly, and turned his back on the world. “Worship God, and serve only Him. Because only He is worthy of it. What . . . is all the world against Heaven?”

  I sighed, and nodded, and took us back to the desert. I didn’t snap my fingers. Couldn’t summon up the enthusiasm. I pulled up a rock and sat down. Jesus did have a point about the peace and quiet of the desert. He sat down on another rock, facing me.

  “Is that it?”

  “Pretty much,” I said. “I’ve covered all the bases He wanted covered and got the answers He expected. I’ve a few things of my own left to try, before I go back. But I’m starting to wonder if there’s any point.”

  “You don’t have to go straight back,” said Jesus. “We can sit here and talk, if you like.”

  “There are things we should talk about,” I said as seriously as I knew how. “We could talk about Our Father, Brother.”

  He looked at me consideringly. “We’re . . . brothers? How did that happen?”

  “Brothers in every way that matters,” I said. “Think about it! He’s as much my Father as yours. I was the first thing He created, the first angel. Made perfect and most beautiful. He put me in charge of everything else He created . . . and then objected when I used the authority He gave me! I didn’t fall; I was pushed! I failed Him, so He’s trying again with you. Both of us created specifically of His will, to serve His purposes. Come on, you know what I’m talking about. It’s not been easy for either of us, has it? Living our lives in the shadow of such a demanding Father. Trying to please Him, when it isn’t always clear what He wants. He always expects so much of both of us. . . .” I looked at him squarely. “Don’t you fail him, Jesus, or you could end up like me. . . .”

  “You always were the dumbest one,” said Jesus. “You didn’t fail Him. You failed yourself. You weren’t punished for using your authority, but for abusing it. That’s why you had to leave Heaven. And you know very well that you can leave Hell anytime you choose; all you have to do is repent.”

  “What?” I said. “Say I’m sorry? To Him! I’m not sorry! I’m not sorry because I’ve done nothing to be sorry for! I did nothing wrong! I was His first creation; He loved me first! What did He need other angels for? He had me! I did everything for Him. Everything. If He had to have other playthings, angels, or humans, it was only right I should be in charge of them. I was the first. I was the oldest. I knew best!”

  “No, you didn’t,” said Jesus. “That’s the point. You always did miss the point. Hell isn’t eternal and was never meant to be.”

  “The guilty must be punished,” I said stiffly. “Just like me.”

  “No,” Jesus said patiently. “The guilty must be redeemed. They must be made to understand the nature of their sin, so they can properly repent of it. Hell is an asylum for the morally insane. God’s last attempt to get your attention. Hell was never meant to be forever. Do you really think I’d put up with a private torture chamber in the hereafter? The fires are there to burn away sin, so all the lost sheep can come home. Eventually . . . all Hell will be empty, its job done. And every soul will be in Heaven, where they belong.”

  “I’ll never say I’m sorry,” I said, not looking at him. “He can’t make me say it. I’ll never give in, even if I’m the only one left in Hell.”

  “If you were, I’d come down and stay with you,” said Jesus. “To keep you company. Until you were ready to leave.”

  I looked at him then. “You really would, wouldn’t you?”

  He looked at me thoughtfully. “Be honest, Satan. What would you do, if I did say yes to you? If I was to turn away from our Father, what then?”

  “What couldn’t we do together?” I said, leaning forward eagerly. “We could fight to overthrow the Great Tyrant, and be free of Him! Free to do what we wanted, instead of what He wanted. Take control of our own lives! We could set the whole world free! No more laws, no more rules, no more stupid restrictions. Everyone free to do whatever they wanted, free to pursue everything they’d ever desired or dreamed of . . . No more guilt, no more repressed feelings; just life, lived to the hilt! Wouldn’t that . . . be Heaven on Earth?”

  “If there was no law, no right or wrong,” sa
id Jesus, “how could there be Good and Evil?”

  “There wouldn’t!” I said. “You see, you’re getting it! My point exactly!”

  But Jesus was already shaking his head. “What about all the innocents who would suffer at the hands of those who could only be happy by hurting others?”

  “What about them?” I said. “What have the meek ever contributed? What have the weak ever done, except hold us back? Survival of the fittest! Stamp out the weak, so that generations to come will be stronger still!”

  “No,” said Jesus. “I’ve never had any time for bullies. As long as one innocent suffers, I’ll be there for him.”

  “Why?” I said. Honestly baffled.

  “Because it’s the right thing to do.”

  He still wasn’t listening to me, so I decided to try one of my own special temptations. Not one of the official ones, probably because it was a bit basic, but it hadn’t been officially excluded, so . . . I called up the most beautiful woman I knew and had her appear before us. Tall and wonderful, smiling and stark naked. I’ve never seen a better body, and I’ve been around. She smiled sweetly at Jesus, and he smiled cheerfully back at her.

  “Hello, Lil,” he said. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it? How’s tricks?”

  “Oh, you know,” said Lilith, in her rich sultry voice. “Going back and forth in the world and walking up and down in it, and sleeping with everything that breathes. Giving birth to monsters to plague mankind. Play to your strengths, that’s what I always say.”

  “You two know each other?” I said just a bit numbly.

  “Oh sure,” said Jesus. “Lilith herself, Adam’s first wife in the Garden of Eden, thrown out because she refused to accept Adam’s authority. Or, to be more exact, because she wouldn’t accept any authority over her. And we all know where that leads. You got your punishment, Satan, and Lilith got hers. And just like you, she can put down her burden and walk away the moment she’s ready to repent.”

  Lilith laughed. “What makes you think it’s a burden? Come on, Jesus, how about it? You look like you could use some tender loving care. See what you’re missing! How can you really understand mankind, if you don’t do as they do? Do everything they do?”

  But he was already shaking his head again. “No,” said Jesus. “I made up my mind about that long ago. I can’t afford to be distracted by the pleasures of the world. I have a mission. Home and hearth, woman and children, are not for me. I have to follow my higher calling. Because so much depends on it.”

  “Oh yes?” said Lilith. “And what about you and Mary Magdalene?”

  He smiled. “We’re just good friends.”

  Lilith laughed. “From you, I believe it.” She looked at me and shrugged in a quite delightful way. “Sorry, Satan, I did my best, but you just can’t help some people.”

  I nodded and sent her on her way. Her scent still hung around, long after she was gone. Jesus and I sat together for a while, both of us thinking our separate thoughts.

  “Come on,” I said finally. “Your forty days and nights are up. Time to go back. I’ll walk along with you for a while. Just to keep you company.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “I’d like that.”

  So we got up and headed back to civilization, or what passed for it back in those days.

  “Sorry I had to do the whole temptation thing,” I said. “But . . . it’s the job.”

  “That’s all right,” said Jesus. “I forgive you. That’s my job.”

  I looked at him. “You know one of your own is going to betray you?”

  “Yes,” said Jesus. “I’ve always known.”

  “They’ll blame it on me, but it’s just him. Do you want to know who it will be?”

  “No,” he said. “I’ve always known. I try so hard not to treat him any differently from the others. He means well, in his way. And I keep hoping . . . that I can find some way to reach him. And perhaps . . . save both of us. They’re good sorts, the disciples. Best friends I ever had.”

  “You know how the story’s going to end,” I said roughly. “You can’t change it. Can you?”

  “Perhaps,” he said. “I could be tempted . . . but I won’t. It’s just too important.”

  “You must know what they’re going to do to you!” I said. “They’re going to nail you to a fucking cross! Like a criminal! Like an animal!”

  “Yes. I know.”

  “It’s not right,” I said. I was so angry, I was shaking so hard, I could hardly get the words out. “It’s not right! Not you . . . Just say the word, Jesus, and I swear I’ll come and rescue you! I’ll take you down off that cross and kill anyone who tries to get in our way! I’d fight my way up out of Hell to rescue you!”

  “You would, wouldn’t you?” said Jesus. “But you mustn’t. I have to do this, Brother.”

  “But why?” I said miserably.

  “To redeem mankind,” said Jesus. “Because . . . I have faith in them.”

  We walked for a while in quiet company.

  “Come on, Jesus,” I said. “We’ll never get there at this rate.”

  So we went jogging across the desert, side by side, two sons of a very demanding Father, who might have faced the world together if only things had been just a bit different.

  “Come on, Satan,” said Jesus, grinning. “Put some effort into it. Go for the burn.”

  I had to laugh. Typical Jesus. He always has to have the last Word.

  Okay, I had the main idea for this one years and years ago. Jesus is fasting in the desert for forty days and nights, tempted by the Devil, told in the style of the Odd Couple. Some ideas just move into your head and won’t leave you alone. But I couldn’t think of anyone who would buy it. And then Christopher Golden came along, wanting stories written from the point of view of the Bad Guy. And I shouted YES! punched the air, and wrote the whole thing in under two hours. I think the material is actually quite respectful to the original. It’s all how you look at these things.

  Food of the Gods

  We are what we eat. No. Wait. That’s not quite right.

  I wake up, and I don’t know where I am. Red room, red room, dark shadows all around and a single, bare red bulb, swinging back and forth, coating the room with bloody light. I’m sitting on the floor with my back pressed against the wall, and I can’t seem to remember how I got here. And set on the floor before me, like a gift or an offering, on a plain white china plate, is a severed human head.

  I’m sure I know the face, but I can’t put a name to it.

  I can’t think clearly. Something’s wrong. Something has happened, something important, but I can’t think what. And the severed head stares at me accusingly, as though this is all my fault. I can’t seem to look away from the head, but there isn’t much else to look at. Bare walls, bare floorboards, a single closed door just to my left. And the blood-red light rising and falling as the bulb swings slowly back and forth. I don’t want to be here. This is a bad place. How did I end up in a place like this?

  The name’s James Eddow. Reporter. Investigative reporter, for one of the dailies. Feeding the public appetite for all the things it’s not supposed to know. I went looking for a story, and I think I found one. Yes, I remember. There were rumors of a man who ate only the finest food, prepared in the finest ways. A man who wouldn’t lower himself to eat the kind of things other people eat. The Epicure. He lived in the shadows, avoiding all publicity, but everyone who mattered had heard of him, and it was said . . . that if you could find him, and if you could convince him you were worthy, he would make you the greatest meal of your life. Food to die for.

  It had been a long time since I’d handed in a really good story. My editor was getting impatient. I needed something new, something now, something really tasty. So I went looking for the Epicure.

  I went walking through the night side of the city, buying drinks for familiar
faces in bars and clubs and members-only establishments, talking casually with people in the know, dropping a little folding money here and there, and finally found myself a native guide. Mr. Fetch. There’s always someone like him, in every scene. The facilitator, always happy to put like-minded souls together, at entirely reasonable rates. He can lay his hands on anything, or knows someone who can, and he knew the Epicure, oh yes, though he gave me the strangest look when I said I just had to meet him. Actually had the nerve to turn up his nose and tell me to run along home. That I didn’t know what I was getting into. But money talks, in a loud and persuasive voice, and Mr. Fetch put aside his scruples, just for me.

  Why can’t I move? I don’t feel drugged, or paralyzed. But I just sit here, with my hands folded neatly in my lap, while the face on the severed head stares sadly back at me. I know that face. I’m sure I do. Why am I not shocked, or horrified? Why can’t I look away? I know that face. The name’s on the tip of my tongue.

  Mr. Fetch took me to a faded hole-in-the-wall restaurant, in the shabbier end of the city. No one looked at us as we marched through the dining area. The diners concentrated on their meals, while the waiters stared into space. A door at the back led through into an entirely ordinary kitchen, and there, sitting at an empty table, was the Epicure. Not much to look at. Average size, average face, fever bright eyes. His presence seemed to fill the whole kitchen. He smiled on me and gestured for me to sit down opposite him. Mr. Fetch couldn’t wait to get his money and depart at speed. He wouldn’t even look at the Epicure.

  The great man looked me over, nodded slowly, and immediately identified me as a journalist. I just nodded. This wasn’t the kind of man you could lie to. He laughed, briefly, and then started talking, before I’d even got my tape recorder set up. As though he’d been waiting for someone he could tell his story to. Someone who’d appreciate it.

  I can smell the hunger on you, he said in his soft rich voice.

  Tell me, I said. Tell me everything.