Tales Of The Gurrier

The tents in the desert flexed and tore against the rough wooden pegs that pinned them to the parched earth. Ill winds blew down from the bleached mountaintop to pierce the coarse hemp canvas and chill the dreams of the sleeping children within. The tribe who had gathered in the centre of the huddle of shelters began slowly to disperse to their dwellings. The leader had returned and in furious anger their worship, abruptly ended. In it’s place they raised a great fire and a new born God was burned.

The books and the stories say the God burned up and ground to dust. They say the leader made his sinners drink of the ashes of the dead God, that their sins would be forgiven. But the stories were wrong. He did not burn. The fire though it raged around him, though it flayed the melted skin from his coarse back, he could not die, for he was a God, of sorts. And when the fire died away at last, leaving black char and grey ash, the tribe took to the desert to wander once more, and the burned God arose from the ashes of the fire pit, and the water of the bubbling brook and the scattered grains of the desert sands. He arose and and walked the earth.

At first he was not a powerful God, at first, nor a popular one but he was a God and that was enough. His worshippers were the weak, the venal, the greedy. They were legion, but their loyalty and their belief was of a decrepit and undependable nature. He did not grow to be a strong God, at first, but he grew to be a vengeful one. And with each act of petty malice and spite he knew he would get a little stronger, and one day, one day he would be strong enough.

And so he walked the world of men across the many centuries, sometimes here, sometimes there…….

In courts and palaces he took his leisure and drank in the lives of petty rulers and mighty Kings. Of Emperors and Maharajahs, Moguls and Chieftains. He spent his time with each and laid his blessing upon them. And all the while he nurtured within his scarred breast the flame of vengeance.

…… and one day the God knew he was strong enough and on that day he turned and set off at his slow, patient, pace for Rome.

“MOSCA!,” roared Pope Innocent XIV from the throne room.

There was a barely audible click and Mosca slid from a concealed doorway to stand by his master.

“Yes, my liege,” said Mosca.

“I’m bored Mosca, bored, bored, bored. What have you got for me today?”

“Today my Lord will offer Mass for the souls of the pestilent martyrs of St. Anthony. The mass will be attended by four heads of state, the ex President of Ghana, the Bishop of Moscow, a nobel laureate and the colonial Governor of New Sicily.”

“Mass, boooring. Let’s go shooting again. The President of Ghana and the Bishop of Moscow love shooting things. In fact let’s shoot the nobel laureate. Didn’t he write some poem about me?”

“The Bishop of Moscow is ninety four years old sire, he has suffers from severe senile dementia and is kept alive using a complex cocktail of immuno-suppressant drugs and electro shock therapy which enable his doctors to prevent his brain getting the message to his cadaver that he has been clinically dead for six months. It is imperative that you decide on a successor for the bishopric before he starts to stink up the place. In addition, placing a loaded shotgun in the hands of a semi-dead, semi-sentient being, and letting him take pot shots at a respected nobel laureate is, to put it mildy, extremely unwise.”

“You can be a dull bastard sometimes Mosca. I know that fucking smarmy git was talking about me in that poxy rhyme of his. Smug bastard. I’ll show him. I’m going to piss in the wine.”

“Sire please!”

“You’re no fun anymore Mosca. Remember when we used to take the popemobile out and pick up Nuns, remember? You used to be cool to hang out with Mosca.”

“That was last week sire and if my liege may recall the young lady in question had to be shipped to the colonies and given an extra large dose of pencillin.”

“Heh, what’s a Pope to do. Sometimes Il Papa’s gotta be Il papa.”

“Indeed. The mass sir, we must prepare your sermon.”

“Ah yes, the sermon. I think today it will be something about the great sacrifices the church has made on behalf of its people and how the filthy heathen scum will rue the fucking day they started believing in that Wicca shit. Let’s do something on the Buddhists too. I hate those guys.”

“Yes most magnificent one, your views on hippies and buddhists have been well received, in some quarters. However, I thought perhaps a treatise on the the doctrine of nature, unity, substantiality, spirituality, and origin of the soul.”

Pope Innocent XIV looked up sharply from his well thumbed copy of ‘Nuns’n'Guns’.

“You what?” he said.

Mosca looked deep into the beady eyes of the pontiff, seeking a spark of humanity. The blackness prevailed.

“Very well sire, I shall contact the master-at-arms”

“Excellent, and call the curator at the Coliseum. I want to show old that old commie, Yuri, how we do it old school, Roman style.”

It was a high, clear morning in St. Peter’s square as The Pope, Mosca, The ex President of Ghana and the almost ex Bishop of Moscow took the air.

“What do you think George, a fine morning for shooting things?” said the Pope.

“There is a saying amongst my people, your holiness. Everyday is a fine day for shooting things,” said George, the ex President of Ghana.

“Is that not why there are so few of your people left George?”

“Yes your holiness,” said George looking sad.

“What part of Ghana are you from George”

“Lewisham.”

“Is that actually in Ghana?”

“Good grief no. I’ve never been there myself. They have terrible problems with sanitation and the food, I hear the food it terrible.”

“I see, so how exactly did you become President of Ghana?”

“Well, it’s more of an honorary title your holiness. Some years ago I received an email from a young Ghanian gentleman; the son of the then President. He sought my aid in his nation’s hour of direst need and it was an honour to be of assistance. In exchange for a small contribution from myself he planned to flee the war torn country with his family and a large sum of money in bearer bonds, to be used for rebuilding the country. These were to be placed in my trust along with the thanks of a grateful nation. I was happy to oblige and though the poor gentleman perished in an attack on the airport and the funds were irretrievably lost, I did receive a certificate in the post conferring on me the presidency of the republic of Ghana for a term not exceeding four years from the date of issue.”

The Pope looked at George the ex President of Ghana with a mixture of pity and horror. He waved weakly for Mosca.

“Mosca, did you catch that.”

“Yes sire, my most humble apologies. I believe there has been some sort of a mix up.”

“You’re fucking right there’s been a mix up Mosca. Now get this nutter off my fucking square and ship him back to Lewisham double quick.”

“Yes my liege, it will be done at once.”

“And Mosca, no press, hear me.”

“Yes sire.”

Mosca took George the ex President of Ghana and former general manager for Lewisham Tesco’s gently by the arm and began to lead him back across the square towards the guards and the waiting Vatican dungeons.

“So, looks like it’s just you and me Yuri,” said the Pope to the cadaver in the motorised wheelchair.

The Bishop of Moscow peered out at his pontiff beneath multiple layers of flannel pyjamas, scarves, woolen waistcoats, dressing gowns and mufflers, and mumbled something incomprehensible through his oxygen mask.

“Nonsense Yuri,” said the Pope “You look good. You’ll out last me I’ll wager”

With a monumental effort of will Yuri Prokief raised a wizened, claw-like hand and began to scrabble at the mass of tubes and wires trailing from beneath his dressing gown.

“Mmmmrrrrrrrrr,” he said.

“Now, now Yuri, suicide is a mortal sin against God, remember. As is assisted suicide, so please control yourself.”

The Pope gently pried Yuri’s grasping fingers away from the off switch of his ventilator and dialled up the intra-cranial morphine drip plugged into the base of his skull. The Bishop’s rheumy, liquid pupils, grew large and dreamy and his deathgrip loosened.

“We all have our little crosses to bear Yuri,” said the Pope, wheeling the Russian vegetable priest across the cobblestones. “One day I’ll be like you Yuri. Not in the strapped to a wheelchair as a living corpse sense, but in a used up, served my purpose kind of way.”

The Popes reveries were interrupted by the appearance of the Roderick Fabian O’Malley the Nobel Laureate and immense Irish prick.

“Ah your holiness, our most divine and glorious shepard. Is it not a wondrous morning to walk the streets of Rome, to drink in the rarified atmosphere of the masters, where every street corner is a artists dream and the merest mural, a masterpiece. Surely it brings a smile to the face of Gods bishop and lightens the burden of the Rock of the church, in the sure knowledge that the gates of hell will not prevail against us.”

“I don’t know what you just said O’Malley but I don’t like it and if you put it in one of your bloody poems I’ll shoot you in the cock. Do you understand? Now what the bloody hell is that cow doing in my square. Mosca!”

From the far end of the square a golden cow was lumbering slowly towards them. O’Malley the poet peered at the approaching creature and let out a low moan. His eyes swelled with fear and falling back he stretched out his hands before him as if to block out the approaching horror.

“Oh, oh, oh,” he said “Oh The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned. Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world. Flee, flee.”

“Shut up, you fool,” said the Pope shoving the babbling Irishman aside and wrestling with his shotgun. “Where’s Mosca, I thought we were doing this in the Coliseum.”

But O’Malley gripped the Pope with mad staring eyes and continued his recitation “What rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born? It is the end sire, he comes. Oh to have lived!”

“Would you fucking shut up for Christ sake!” roared the Pope, “I am trying to shoot some animals. Yuri what the fuck are you doing?”

But the Bishop of Moscow could not hear him, he could no longer hear anything, but he could see. He could see the light. A great golden light approaching him at speed. This was it, he thought, this was it at long last, the end. Never a man to wait patiently for something that could be grasped with both hands he summoned the remaining shreds of motive force in his decaying limbs and slammed the wheelchair forward at maximum speed.

“Kristos vosskres, denique caelum!” he screamed from dead lungs. The Russian vegetable priest streaked across St. Peter’s square and plowed into the Golden Calf at thirty five miles an hour. There was a tremendous explosion as the oxygen tank went up and both figures were engulfed in flames. The ex Bishop of Moscow died with a smile on his face, knowing at last his suffering was over. The burned God ignored the flames and continued his slow, stately pace.

“Doomed, we’re doomed,” said O’Malley ” Oh, Turning and turning in the widening gyre, The falcon cannot hear the falconer; oh I say, now wait a minute”

“I warned you,” said the Pope as he turned and hit O’Malley in the face with the butt of his shotgun. “I will shoot you next time O’Malley, capisce.”

“Mmfph,” said O’Malley.

“Now let’s have some sport shall we.”

Pope Innocent turned and drew down on the advancing bovine deity. “That was Moscow’s finest theologian you just exploded you bastard. Time for you to pay the Papa!” The twin barrels of the Popes modified Mossberg repeating shotgun spoke awesome thunder, but when the smoke cleared the golden calf stood unharmed.

“Oh fuck,” said the Pope, “MOSCA! Get the holy water.”

“Well ahead of you sire,” said Mosca sidling into view.

“Oh Mosca, thank god you’re here. That cow just blew up Yuri and I think O’Malley has gone mad. I had to hit him in the face. Here, help me reload, I need to shoot that thing again. I think I missed the first time.”

“One moment sire, I think this may be a creature of no mere pedestrian origin.”

“You think. It’s a big gold bastard of a cow. You think it’s gold all the way through?” The Pope licked his lips at the prospect. “He looks about two tons. That’s a lot of gold.”

“Indeed it is sire, however if you will allow me a moment to converse with the beast perhaps we could come to an amicable arrangement.”

“Really?” said the Pope looking crestfallen, “no gold then?”

“I’m afraid not sire. I fear this may be the genuine article here.”

“Hmmm, a real bit of walking, talking Old testament? That could be worth something to us eh?”

“It’s weight in gold I’ll wager, you holiness”

“Do it.”

Mosca sidled away from his master and approached the golden cow. It stood a little way off breathing steadily, its great yellow flanks heaving like the bellows of a furnace.

The Pope turned to O’Malley who remained cowering behind him.

“Well O’Malley, it’ll be some poem you write about this one eh. I see an epic, starring me, and Yuri of course. Maybe even George. No best leave George out of this. Ah Mosca that was quick.

Mosca had returned with the golden cow. “I simply explained how things were with us your holiness, and He agrees. Something can be worked out to our mutual benefit.”

“Yes, yes and?” said the Pope.

“My liege, may I present his holiness the next Bishop of Moscow.”

“Oh Mosca,” said the Pope with tears in his eyes “you wonderful bastard.”

And that is the tale of how the Golden Calf became the Bishop of Moscow, and what happened after that, well that’s another story altogether.

——————————————————————–

That was a strange one. I started out in one direction but ended up bringing back Pope Innocent XIV and Mosca. They have been itching to get out for another spin since their last adventure. Unfortunately the beginning and the end don’t gel, but I had fun writing it. Come to think of it, very little of it makes any sense at all.

This weeks Flickr fiction is brought to you using this picture taken by Flickr user isolano. Other participants this week are Elimare, Teaandcakes, Tadamack, and Aquafortis.

This entry was posted on Sunday, October 29th, 2006 at 5:12 pm and is filed under Flickr Fiction. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.