“But you got one!” says the visitor intensely. “Why turn your back on it — the only world rich with all kinds of life? Some with the brain to grasp your intention and I am not taking about whales!”
“Calm down Jimmy,” says the Head kindly.
“I am perfectly calm and stop calling me Jimmy!”
“Do you prefer your earlier titles O’Lucifer? Son of the Morning? Prometheus, bringer of fire?”
The Head is joking. Jimmy says wistfully, “King of the Jews. Prince of Peace.”
The Head wags a forefinger, says, “Prince of Darkness! Loki! Kali! Mephistopheles!” — his Scots accent broadens for a moment — “Auld Nick! Well, in my time I’ve been called a lot of funny names too.”
“So why call me Jimmy?”
“It suits my accent.”
“Why sound like a Scot?”
The Head sighs, looks gloomy, at last says, “I still get messages from that world of yours, messages from desperate people who want help. They demand help! These impossible demands …”
He hesitates.
“They’re called prayers,” Jimmy tells him.
“You should stop them reaching me! These impossible demands … are mostly from mothers.”
“Mothers worry you,” says Jimmy accusingly. The Head strongly counter-attacks.
“I cannot break physical laws that keep this universe running! I cannot stop fire or fiery chemicals hurting babies and wee kids because their skin is burned off by homicidal idiots obeying orders! When I answer …” (he hesitates) “… prayers in a Scots accent they know I am not a loving father who will work miracles. They know they havnae a hope in hell.”
“Then why not sound American? Like Dubya?”
There is a globe of the world within reach. The Head touches a northern continent upon it, saying sadly, “Don’t depress me. I once had hopes of America.”
“Why not sound,” asks Jimmy brightly, “like a former Scottish Prime Minister? The war criminal who goes around claiming to be one of your greatest fans.”
The Head covers his face with his hands, muttering, “Please don’t sicken me. We supernaturals are only heard when we use other folk’s voices. You sound Irish because you like to be liked and (IRA apart) the southern Irish voice usually does sound friendly to people outside Ireland. But God the Father must sook up to naebody! Naebody!”
After a pause Jimmy says calmly, “Do you sound Scottish to me because I haven’t a hope in hell?”
“Yes!” says the Head looking straight at him. “But it won’t stop you saying what you’re here to say so say on, Macduff.”
Jimmy holds out a sheaf of printed papers saying, “Read these emails you ignored.”
“No. Bin them. I know what they say because I know everything. Everything.”
“But you won’t attend to everything so attend to these!”
The Head says patiently, “They say the world’s richest governments have the power to kill everything bigger than a cockroach, and are still buying even more destructive weapons to fight wars in any land that resists letting them take its natural resources. These governments still sometimes say their warfare defends democracy. They used to say it defended Christianity and free trade. All lies of course. What did you want me to do, O Prince of Peace? Intervene personally?”
“I do.”
“That never works. I gave Moses a few good rules everybody should observe — Don’t kill, don’t steal, don’t tell lies. Many mothers still teach that to their kids. But then came law makers with exceptions to my rules — You must kill when governments tell you to, and can steal from men, women and children when governments let you take their land, and must not tell truths when governments say truths are dangerous. Also adulteresses should be stoned to death. Had I said to Moses, This I command thee, do what the hell you like! human history would have been just as bloody.”
“Nobody thinks your law against killing applies to foreigners,” says Jimmy mournfully.
“You did your best to correct them about that, my …”
The Head hesitates. Jimmy looks hard at him until he goes on to say, “… my good man. Yes, you told them to love their neighbours as themselves and their enemies too. Don’t fight the people who oppress you, but refuse to kill, steal or lie for them.”
“Good words to spread,” says Jimmy sadly.
The Head starts to speak, hesitates again then says in an embarrassed way, “There is something I’ve wanted to ask. When you were … hanging there …”
“I was nailed,” says Jimmy flatly.
“Yes. And you told someone in the same state that he would go to heaven with you. Why?”
“He talked kindly to me,” says Jimmy shrugging and spreading his hands. “I wanted to be kind back. Should I have told him there is as little justice in heaven as on earth? My body was in such pain that I forgot it was temporary. I was delirious. Up to almost the very last minute I was mad enough to think you might save everyone who suffered unjustly, and save them … through me!”
He gives a desperate chuckle. The Head assumes the manner of a schoolteacher and says, “If I only existed to give eternal sweeties to good folk and eternal beltings to bad, goodness would be cheap. There would be no decency, no heroism in it. I love heroism and you were a hero. I am proud of what you told people and what you endured for telling them.”
“You didn’t need heroism to be crucified,” Jimmy tells him grimly, “the Romans did it to hundreds of thousands. From the start of history down to the present day millions of children, women and men have endured worse deaths for no reason at all — just because they were born in unlucky places.”
Says the Head consolingly, “Your words comforted many unlucky people, especially slaves and women.”
“O yes!” cries Jimmy. “And when my comforting words were made official by the Roman Empire and even policemen were christened, my Christians began murdering neighbours with different Gods and burning down their temples and synagogues. My Jesus was as big a flop as your Moses, which is why I want you to …”
“Suddenly!” the Head interrupts, snapping his fingers. “Suddenly, simultaneously appear on every television and computer screen on the planet announcing, You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and all your soul and all your mind, and your neighbour as your self or You! Will! Be! Ex! Ter! Min! Ated! They would treat me as a rogue virus Jimmy.”
“You don’t understand,” says Jimmy shaking his head. “I want you to exterminate all the brutes.”
“Say that again,” says the Head, surprised.
“Exterminate all the brutes. Now.”
The Head sighs, stares at his crystalline forms as if looking for help there, then mutters, “Michty me. Crivens. Jings Jimmy don’t be so damned biblical. I am not the genocidal lunatic described in Genesis. I never made a deluge that drowned everyone except a single family of each species. I did not burn Sodom and Gomorrah with fire and brimstone out of heaven.”
“But you wiped out most of the dinosaurs and the saltwater plankton. You smothered Pompeii and Herculaneum in volcanic ash.”
The Head says patiently, “A wholly stable planet is physically impossible. Even with Jupiter and the moon to shield it, an asteroid the size of Dundee is bound to hit the earth every thirteen million years or so. The dinosaurs lasted a lot longer than that. They had a fair innings. Six and a half million years will pass before the next meteoric disaster — plenty of time for folk to learn how to stop it. And it is not my fault when men build cities beside a volcano. Your job was to stop folk blaming me for things priests and insurance companies once called Acts of God — floods, earthquakes, plagues and epidemics caused by ignorance of safe cultivation and hygiene. And you cured that ignorance!”