her skin was blackened and her face was in a place beyond pain. No, not beyond pain, but at the furthest reaches of pain, and the only place beyond it is death.
“Popcorn?”
The man held out a bucket. Jesus knocked it from his hand, scattering the popcorn over the ground, where it turned again to pebbles and grit. For a second, the cheerful, inquisitive, businesslike face of the figure changed, and not even the mirrors fastened to the man’s face could conceal the red fire in his eyes. And then the fire was hidden again.
“Yeah, sure, you got upset,” he said. “Only to be expected. Who’s the woman? You wanna know who she is? Does it matter? Pagan, heretic, witch, who cares? My point is, she’s burning – hell, they’re all burning – because of you. Because of what you teach. Because of what it makes men do. But you can stop it. Just walk away. Give it all the finger. The disciples, the water into wine shtick, the lepers, the woman who washes your feet with her hair, the guy you bring back from the dead, the scourging, the crown of thorns, the death on the tree, the whole lot. Say the word and it’s gone. Quite literally never happens. And when that goes, everything else goes too. No persecutions, no crusades, no burning babes like this one here. We’re all laughing.”
Jesus stared into the desert and saw an unexpected last brilliant flaming of red ochre before the darkness came.
“Let’s get it on paper, shall we? Not that I wouldn’t take your word, but it’s good to have these things on file. No need to read the small print; it’s just the usual stuff for the lawyers – you know what they’re like. Just sign here. In blood. No, only kidding. It’s not like we’re a couple of spindly goths hanging round a graveyard in Sheffield. Ink’s fine. Use this. Just click on the top there and it … you got it.
Thaaaaat’s
great. OK, OK. Give you a lift back into town? No? Suit yourself.”
And then Satan was gone, leaving Jesus alone on the bleak mountainside with the darkness upon him. And the screen was just the stars in the night sky, and the soft seat was a flat rock.
And Jesus thought about the smile on the face of Satan as he left and the truth came to him at last, and he allowed himself a glimpse of the future as it now stood. He saw what would become of the world. Saw that the evil was now greater. Saw that what had been small points of flame was now one great conflagration.
And then, not knowing whether to go up to the mountain top, where still a little light might be found, or down into the endless black of the valley, he cast himself onto the stony ground.
And Jesus wept.
THE BURNING GLASS
Marcus Sedgwick
In May 1814, following his abdication, the former Emperor of France Napoleon Bonaparte was exiled by the allied governments to the Mediterranean island of Elba.
I
n the Musée des Arts et Métiers in Paris there are some extraordinary machines from across the ages of scientific invention. Here hangs Foucault’s famous Pendulum, whose gentle swings disclose the rotation of the earth, and here also sits another of his great inventions: a multiple contraption comprising a large wooden table under which rests an enormous pair of bellows. On top of the table there are various clamps and tubes of brass construction. There is a tuning fork, a series of seven small round mirrors on spindles, and a small lens able to spin freely and at great speed. There is something a bee-keeper would recognize as a smoke generator. With this unlikely assortment of instruments, in 1862 Foucault determined the speed of light to within 0.6 per cent of its currently accepted value. Next to the machine is a larger but at first glance similar-looking apparatus. On the whole it seems a clumsy, unsophisticated ancestor of Foucault’s cunning device, waiting in vain to evolve into something that actually works; but in fact its true function remains a mystery to this day.
A small brass plaque bears the name of
“Popcorn?”
The man held out a bucket. Jesus knocked it from his hand, scattering the popcorn over the ground, where it turned again to pebbles and grit. For a second, the cheerful, inquisitive, businesslike face of the figure changed, and not even the mirrors fastened to the man’s face could conceal the red fire in his eyes. And then the fire was hidden again.
“Yeah, sure, you got upset,” he said. “Only to be expected. Who’s the woman? You wanna know who she is? Does it matter? Pagan, heretic, witch, who cares? My point is, she’s burning – hell, they’re all burning – because of you. Because of what you teach. Because of what it makes men do. But you can stop it. Just walk away. Give it all the finger. The disciples, the water into wine shtick, the lepers, the woman who washes your feet with her hair, the guy you bring back from the dead, the scourging, the crown of thorns, the death on the tree, the whole lot. Say the word and it’s gone. Quite literally never happens. And when that goes, everything else goes too. No persecutions, no crusades, no burning babes like this one here. We’re all laughing.”
Jesus stared into the desert and saw an unexpected last brilliant flaming of red ochre before the darkness came.
“Let’s get it on paper, shall we? Not that I wouldn’t take your word, but it’s good to have these things on file. No need to read the small print; it’s just the usual stuff for the lawyers – you know what they’re like. Just sign here. In blood. No, only kidding. It’s not like we’re a couple of spindly goths hanging round a graveyard in Sheffield. Ink’s fine. Use this. Just click on the top there and it … you got it.
Thaaaaat’s
great. OK, OK. Give you a lift back into town? No? Suit yourself.”
And then Satan was gone, leaving Jesus alone on the bleak mountainside with the darkness upon him. And the screen was just the stars in the night sky, and the soft seat was a flat rock.
And Jesus thought about the smile on the face of Satan as he left and the truth came to him at last, and he allowed himself a glimpse of the future as it now stood. He saw what would become of the world. Saw that the evil was now greater. Saw that what had been small points of flame was now one great conflagration.
And then, not knowing whether to go up to the mountain top, where still a little light might be found, or down into the endless black of the valley, he cast himself onto the stony ground.
And Jesus wept.
THE BURNING GLASS
Marcus Sedgwick
In May 1814, following his abdication, the former Emperor of France Napoleon Bonaparte was exiled by the allied governments to the Mediterranean island of Elba.
I
n the Musée des Arts et Métiers in Paris there are some extraordinary machines from across the ages of scientific invention. Here hangs Foucault’s famous Pendulum, whose gentle swings disclose the rotation of the earth, and here also sits another of his great inventions: a multiple contraption comprising a large wooden table under which rests an enormous pair of bellows. On top of the table there are various clamps and tubes of brass construction. There is a tuning fork, a series of seven small round mirrors on spindles, and a small lens able to spin freely and at great speed. There is something a bee-keeper would recognize as a smoke generator. With this unlikely assortment of instruments, in 1862 Foucault determined the speed of light to within 0.6 per cent of its currently accepted value. Next to the machine is a larger but at first glance similar-looking apparatus. On the whole it seems a clumsy, unsophisticated ancestor of Foucault’s cunning device, waiting in vain to evolve into something that actually works; but in fact its true function remains a mystery to this day.
A small brass plaque bears the name of
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