My inspiration for this, very obviously, was Screwtape Proposes a Toast by my very favorite Jack Lewis (I like to think that if we had been friends in real life, we would have been close enough for me to call him "Jack"). I've decided not to revise anything, and just post it here as it was originally written--I know it's a bit long. Some parts I do cringe at, but it would take too long to revise, and then it would never get posted. I hope you enjoy.
>i<
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Mission: Accomplished
Friday, 01:00 hours. Location: Unknown; possibly underground
The table was set for twenty-one. A hunched figure slipped about, fussing over the place settings. The hearth of the fire flickered with the breath of dying embers, and the dull glow struggled to reach beyond the hearth into the murky shadows. There was no other source of light in the room. Orange winks reflected in the empty wine glasses.
A tall spindly figure leaned awkwardly against the mantlepiece, half-heartedly rubbing its hands together. It cast its gaze about the room, surveying every detail with a critical eye.
Its job was on the line tonight, and this it knew full well.
“If they don't come...” he rasped, barely audible, his voice sounding like crumpling newspaper. The smaller figure halted its scurrying for a moment and looked up from the fork it was polishing.
“They'll come.” He gave a dry, knowing nod, setting the piece down on a dusty napkin. “The boss'll have something to say about it if they don't.” He resumed his fidgeting.
“My hands are cold,” the tall figure said suddenly, breaking the silence with his parched voice. The smaller figure cast a sympathetic look.
“You worry too much.”
“It's my job to worry!” the other snapped back defensively. The small figure absorbed this with a shrug; he'd been taking abuse for what had felt like thousands of years. He hadn't made it very far up the ladder, but had rather settled on a wrung that got him most of the comforts of life that he wanted, without nearly as much of the stress that some others had.
He was used to superiors being testy.
There was a knock at the door, and the tall form sprang to answer it. The door opened to reveal a slouching shape, which quickly straightened as it crossed the threshold.
“Evenin',” the figure intoned, his voice low.
“Good evening,” the tall figure responded without warmth, not meaning a bit of it.
“Hope I'm not late?” the newcomer mumbled, looking everywhere but at the Tall One as his eyes darted about the shadows of the empty room.
“Not at all, not at all,” the smaller form said quickly, casting a glare at the Tall One as he helped the guest out of his coat.
“How're you?” the new figure addressed the Tall One, but did not meet his eyes.
“Splendid.”
The Tall One took a step towards the decanter. His walk seemed abnormally stiff—all jerks and spasms.
The years had not been kind to his nerves.
“A drink?” he offered.
The newcomer started. “No, thank you,” he waved it away. “Never before business.” The Tall One contemplated the glass in his unsteady hand, but at a disapproving glance from the short figure, he wavered and set it down regretfully.
“Our host...?” the guest inquired delicately.
“Will be joining us in his own time.”
“Of course, of course,” the visitor said quickly, as if secretly relieved to get away from the subject. “He always does.” He forced a laugh.
Another knock sounded at the door, and the Tall One started, then strode in his odd lurching way to answer it.
This guest was short and portly, and somewhat red in the face. He huffed and puffed on the stoop like a steam engine and wiped the sweat away from his greasy hairline with his sleeve. “Sorry,” he apologized as the door opened, “had to run here off a job—work is murder. Have you any wine?”
Without waiting for an answer he pushed passed the tall agitated figure that stood between him and the decanter. He snatched the glass that the Short One was polishing with his shirt tails. “Ahh,” he said appreciatively, surveying the wine on the sideboard and running his tongue over his teeth. He selected a bottle with the experienced air of a master; “326—now there was a year!” He chuckled ironically, as if at a private joke, either oblivious to or ignoring of the look of hatred the Short One glowered toward him.
“Hoi!” the new guest exclaimed when he looked up from his second glass. “Look who's here!” He reached a beefy hand out towards the first guest, who took it cordially, but made no other gesture of welcome.
“How goes it with you in Africa, my friend?” he asked too loudly. Sweat stood out on his brow, and he licked his unshaven upper lip.
“Well, well enough,” the other responded softly, discreetly wiping his released hand on a handkerchief. “And with you in Asia?”
“The same, the same, can't complain. Is there any more wine?” he asked as he ruefully eyed the dregs of his glass. He felt, despite the urge to grab at another liter of bottled history, that it would probably be polite to ask.
The Tall One cast a jaundiced eye over the groaning sideboard and ground his teeth.
“No.”
“Pity...” The Fat One shrugged regretfully, looking lustfully over the bottles that winked in the firelight. He turned to the Tall One easily. “You know what the trouble with you is?” he gestured vaguely, “you worry too much. You shouldn't worry so much,” he said, loosening his collar.
“And you should watch your weight,” the Tall One snarled, truly agitated for the first time. The firelight glinted in his eyes.
“Alright, alright, no need for that,” the Fat One doffed his cap and fell heavily into a chair, shaking the whole table and sloshing wine. “Just givin' some advice...”
The Short One turned from jabbing at the fire with a poker towards the Tall One with a look that said, “See, I told you that you worry too much...” The Tall One suddenly turned on him.
“Will you stop messing with that damn fire! It's light enough in here!” As always, the hunched figure took this without comment. The Fat One raised an eyebrow and whistled silently, sucking air through his teeth. The first guest quietly studied his place setting, even though he had not yet sat down.
The Tall One reached unsteadily for a wine glass.
There was another knock.
“Excuse me,” the Tall One said pointedly, turning away stiffly and setting his glass down, knocking it over. Another guest was admitted, and formalities were exchanged. The hunched figure shot a look across the room at his superior that said, “I told you they'd come,” but this time did not voice his thoughts.
And so it went. One by one, slowly the guests arrived. Greetings were exchanged but not meant, glasses were passed around, and there were occasional bouts of nervous laughter when someone made a poor joke, but there was an odd smell and a taste in the room, like a drawn bowstring about to snap.
The guests did not seem to mind the darkness—it appeared they almost thrived in it, sometimes retreating into the blackest corners with their wineglasses, as if they loathed even the dull glow of the fire.
Gradually, the guests found their seats around the table, still talking swapping stories about the business in fragmented conversations carried out in hushed tones. There was only one empty place at the table—the head.
No one was talking much now.
Suddenly, there was a stirring in the darkest corner, and an immediate hush fell upon the room. Every eye turned, riveted to the blackness. Then, a movement in the shadows, and slowly, ever so slowly, a large door that had before gone unnoticed silently swung open.
A figure stepped into the open. His bulk seemed to fill the oppressive room, absorbing the meager light. He moved deliberately. Though every eye was on him, he cast his eyes upon no one from under hooded lids.
His cloak swept about him like night sweeps about a mountain.
The Tall One scurried to pull his chair out for him, and the Short One stood in a corner, arms hanging at his sides, gaping unabashedly.
He had never seen Him in real life before.
With gravity, the form gathered his cloaks about him, and eased himself deliberately into the chair at the head of the party. Suddenly, everyone seemed to take an unexplained interest in the empty plates before them, or the napkins upon their laps. No one dared meet the new figure's eyes.
“Sirs,” the Tall One said with gravity, “I give you our Host.”
*
No one moved. The fire flickered lower, but silently, as if it too had been struck dumb with fear of breaking the silence. The Form that dominated the room scanned each present, and every figure recoiled inwardly as his gaze lit upon them. No one lifted his eyes.
Finally, he said, “So. They are all here.”
His voice was deep, like the lowest registers of a pipe organ.
“Yes, sir. All twenty including myself, sir,” the Tall One reported softly as he took his seat at the Host's left hand.
At length, the Host lifted his voice and addressed the table in a businesslike manner that still somehow managed to chill to the bone. He took time to savor every syllable that rolled from his tongue, as if he knew the effect his voice had upon the dinner guests.
“Sirs, colleagues, associates. I need not say why we are here.” A general murmur of agreement rippled around the table. The Host's voice grated upon his listeners' ears; beneath the table, toes curled inadvertently. It sounded like he had swallowed a mouthful of gravel some years ago, and every time he talked the rocks ground together inside of him. (In reality, this was not far from the truth; however, everyone knew better than to even mention it, though there was not one who did not know of the Unfortunate Occurrence of 326.)
The room seemed to fill with a thickness that made it hard to breathe. The fire was obviously suffering.
The Host continued.
“We are endeavoring to undertake an extremely delicate enterprise tonight. Our intelligence network spans across the globe, thanks to many of you. We have laid our plans with great care. All of us here have awaited this day with great anticipation.” He paused, letting his words take effect. They were not lost upon the guests.
“Tonight, when all goes as planned, many many years of hard labor on the part of all of those present will finally be paid off.” Now his voice rose, and he gestured emphatically. “I know that there is not one here who has not given his blood, sweat, and much much more towards making this night possible.” Another murmur of assent, and some scattered clapping. “Now, tonight, we enjoy the hard-earned fruits of our labor!” The Host raised his glass, and the table broke into nervous applause.
The Host shifted in his chair. “Due to the...delicate...nature of this venture, it is understandable that we ourselves must, out of necessity be somewhat removed from the immediate happenings of tonight, which is why I have called you all here, instead of elsewhere. However; I have strategically placed agents covering all critical areas. The moment anything happens, we will know.” He settled back in the chair, and allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. The guests threw nervous glances at each other, but if there were any comments to be had, they were not expressed.
“And now,” said the Host, “we wait.”
The silence was thick. The air was heavy with expectation, and the only noise was the crackling of the fire. The Tall One clenched and unclenched his clammy fists under the table.
Eternities passed.
Suddenly, there was the sound of running footsteps, and the door exploded in a burst of pounding. The silverware on the table rattled as everyone started violently. Only the Host remained motionless, except for a slightly perceptible nod towards the Short One, who sprang towards the door from his corner. He did not have it open an inch before he was nearly bowled over by a wiry little ball of energy that pulled up short at the sight of the sombre gathering. Everyone leaned forward expectantly.
Panting a moment, the messenger gasped, “We've got him! He's been arrested!”
Nobody moved. All eyes turned towards the head of the table. Silence. Then, a smile began to play at the corner of twisted lips. He made a small gesture with his forefinger, and immediately the Short One was at his elbow.
“Now,” the Host said, “pour these gentleguests some wine.”
*
Either the news the messenger had brought or the wine, or the combination of the two, loosened the tongues of the part considerably, but there was still a subdued feeling about the room.
“The second he was nailed, they all scattered like roaches!” the messenger confided to the host, and those eavesdropping, with glee.
“Some friends,” one of the guests remarked wryly.
The Host motioned for the Short One to give the panting messenger wine. The messenger took it gratefully, then retreated into a dark corner, nursing the glass.
Smaller conversations were whispered between neighbors. One caught the ear of the Host: “They'll never push it through,” one figure worried in undertones to the guest at his right. “I just know they won't! It's too risky, too illegal—the whole thing is crooked, not legitimate...”
He was cut off by the door bursting open, almost off its hinges. It released a second messenger, who stumbled across the threshold.
“The verdict! The verdict is in—it's “Guilty!” We've got 'em, boys, we've got em...!”
There wasn't even time to toast, for almost on his heels came another, crying all the way, “Execution! It's execution for him, and nothing else!” He arrived on the doorstep long after his news had reached the ears of the party.
“You see?” said the Host, casting his eyes about the room, “I have provided for everything.”
The two messengers panted side by side and were accordingly provided with refreshments. They retreated into the darkness of an alcove, whispering in animated but hushed tones, comparing notes.
They fire had burned down very low, and only a few embers still glowed, like orange eyes burning into the night.
It was very dark in the room.
With each passing moment, anticipation grew among the party. The Host had long ago fallen silent. Every guest within his own bosom was soundlessly hoping, hoping against hope, not daring to breathe, waiting for that final knock that would spell disaster or victory.
The knock they had waited ages, ages for.
Silence reined in the blackness.
Slowly, slowly, the Host drummed his fingers, one at a time, upon the crimson tablecloth.
The clock above the mantlepiece ticked away the years.
Someone sneezed, and everyone jumped, then cast disapproving glares towards the offender.
“This is when it really comes down to it, ehh boys?” commentated one in too loud of a whisper. He was too drunk to appreciate the daggers that the Tall One shot into him with his eyes.
The Host's speech burned silently in everyone's ears.
Three words. Everyone was thinking it. Just three words....
Then...everyone heard it. Outside, beyond the door—a scraping sound: slow shuffling; feet upon flagstone.
Stone-still, every eye bent intently upon the door.
The Tall One's fists were clenched so tightly that his fingernails bit into his bloody palms. Everyone knew: No tripping two-bit messenger was to be expected here; this would be news straight from the Top.
The shuffling stopped.
A steady knock rang out, echoing even through the thickness of the dead air.
The Short One looked timidly towards the Host, barely daring to move. The Host remained stone-faced. With solemnity, the Short One crept towards the door, reaching out a trembling, clamming hand towards the handle. He did not reach it before it swung open, ominously, of its own accord. The short one fell back, startled, but quickly regained himself.
The draft from the door extinguished the last embers of the fire. Darkness seeped into everyone's eyes and ears and souls, filling out the corners of the room.
The agent stepped across the threshold, and spoke:
“It is finished.”
Silence.
Then, the Host smiled in the dark.
Slowly, he stood.
“Gentledemons,” he laughed; then he said the words, the three words: “God is dead.”
He raised a wineglass.
“To the death of Jesus Christ.”
*
The door swung shut, plunging the room into complete darkness.
It took a few moments for the news to sink in. Then, the room erupted in a cacophony of shouts and whoops, cries and laughter. Food seemed to appear on the plates before everyone, and there was much congratulatory back-slapping and hand-shaking. Wine, wine, everything was wine and clinking glasses and spills and laughter. Some skipped the glasses all together and went straight for the bottles, pouring wine into their mouths and down their fronts. There was pushing and shoving and bawdy songs—some stood on their chairs in the revelry, belting at the tops of their lungs in screeching tones, swaying dangerously. Some shouted curses, curses for the God of Heaven the like which had never been heard before—even in 326. In the dark someone almost too drunk to stand got up on a table and danced.
The Tall One smiled for the first time that night, perhaps for the first time in centuries.
And the Host threw back his head, and laughed.
A laugh that echoed from the razor-sharp peaks of the highest mountains to the lowest crags of the parched blistering deserts. The earth shuddered.
The Host fell into his chair, a self-satisfied sneer hanging upon his crooked lips, soaking in the glory he had longed for since he had first tasted freedom.
Even the look of horror and understanding in the woman's eyes as she spat the flesh of the fruit from her dripping lips had not felt as wonderful, as purely exhilarating as this.
Then someone started in above the din, “Speech! Speech!”, and gradually the others caught on and started in, slurring, “Speech! Speech!”
The Host rose with a congenial laugh, a sound that shook the very four walls, and spread his arms wide. “No speeches tonight, my beautiful, beautiful gentledemons; tonight, wine!” This was quite agreeable to everyone; the room erupted in cheers, and the revelry resumed with renewed gusto. The celebration would never, ever stop—what a wonderful thought, to be drunk for eternity....
Softly, the Tall One approached the Host, and extended a hand. “May I congratulate you, sir. Thank you.” The Host merely leaned back in his chair and smiled, offering the Tall One a full glass. The Tall One took it with a bow, and resumed his seat.
But something began to feel wrong.
Not everyone noticed it at first, but the feeling grew and filled the room until it was undeniable. To some, it was a faint ringing in their ears; to others it was a cold tingle running down their spine, or in the hairs on the backs of their necks. At first on the whole most everyone ignored the sensation, and it was more annoying than uncomfortable, like a nagging forgotten thought unable to be remembered. But it grew and pricked, until even the most inebriated guest noticed it, and pulled at their collars or scratched behind their ears. “Musta been a bad year,” one guest held his wineglass up suspiciously, swirling the contents with his little finger.
The Tall One sat ridged as a stone gargoyle, his drink forgotten. He was not too drunk to realize the sinking feeling crawling up his spine and down his throat into the pit of his stomach. He stole glances out of the corner of his eye at the Host, though he darned not reach up and smooth the hairs that stood out like needles in his flesh on the back of his neck. The Host had fallen silent, and was slumped low into his chair, his chin dug into his fists. His eyes were bottomless, calculating caves.
One drunken guest staggered over. “Speech! Speech, O Great One! Speech!” he slurred, swaying. The Host shot a mottled hand out and seized the demon by his lapels, flinging him across the room. He landed with a crash among a squirming mass of guests in a corner, eliciting sharp protests. The Host sat like a stone. Those around him were beginning to notice, ans the noise started to die down.
The waning of enthusiasm was not lost upon the Host. Suddenly, he stood and bellowed out in horse voice, “What's wrong? Don't just sit there, damn you! Dance! Talk! Drink!” An enterprising scrawny figure started up a feeble chorus, and the clamor half-heartedly resumed.
The ringing grew to a distant rumble, like the warning of a storm. Some clapped their hands over their ears, looking around, mystified, seeking the source of the noise. The Host's hand trembled, and then seized a wineglass, dashing it to millions of shards upon the floor.
The Tall One's hands trembled, so he hid them under the tablecloth, but that did not stop them, so he sat upon them.
The faint rumblings grew, and now no one could ignore them. The silverware on the table began to rattle, and the wine danced in the glasses. It was like a freight train was coming at two hundred miles and hour, and they were directly in its path. Some made wild grabs for the wine—as far as they were concerned, they were going to be good and incapacitated when it him them, whatever It was.
The whole room rumbled. No longer did anyone even put up a pretense of talking anymore. All sat, horrified, frozen, looking at each other, and finally to their Host, for answers.
The Host's mouth was now a thin straight line—all signs of sneer were gone from his lips. His only betrayal of apprehension was the fingers of his left hand that drummed stiffly upon his knee.
Suddenly, there was a deafening, scraping, grating sound, like metal being forcibly twisted wrenched and twisted that shook the room to its foundations, and in the dark everyone grabbed at something to steady himself. Dislodged dust and plaster rained down from overhead, amid confused cries of, “What was that?!”
But the Tall One knew.
“The Gates...” he could not help gasping under his breath. “Hades....”
The Host shot him a grim look of warning from under jutting brows but said nothing, grinding his teeth. The Tall One bit his tongue.
And then the most horrible thing imaginable happened.
It started in the keyhole. Just a bit from the keyhole, and then it came creeping around the frame of the door like smoke. The dark figures sucked in their breath, and slowly those on the far end of the table began to back away from the door; those closer to it could only sit, petrified and wide-eyed as it crept towards them...through the air, across the floor from the crack under the door....
The door was beginning to feel the strain. It was bending at the hinges, as if it were damming back a flood of water; it groaned under the weight, and bowed.
But it was keeping back something much stronger than water—and it could take it no longer. Suddenly, the door burst apart with a mighty crack, exploding into splinters, letting in a sheer blast of it.
Light. Pure, liquid light. Light you could feel.
The demons felt it, the white searing their flesh and burning their eyes like acid as they ran screeching, clawing blindly over each other in a mad scramble of biting and fighting for the remaining dark corners. The Tall One let out an unearthly scream and threw his hands before his face and falling backwards onto the floor, and the Short One dived under the table, taking the cloth and several place settings with him.
And there He stood in the doorway. In his right hand dangled a rusted piece of tortured metal, which He threw away with a clang. Then He stepped across the threshold, dusting His hands clean.
His hands were bloody.
“You're dead!” the Host tried to croak, but own voice sounded foreign to his own ears, and came out sounding tiny and strangled.
It was His face; all the light emanated from His face, and His piercing eyes. His eyes that turned to one form: The Host.
He was down on his knees, trying to draw his cloak around his head and not expose his hands to the light at the same time, attempting to make himself as small as possible and to squirm back into the shadows. And he was shaking, and whimpering (the Tall One had fainted away ages ago). He kept babbling something unintelligible over and over again through the muffled folds of his cloak; finally it became apparent that he was blubbering, “Don't kill me! Don't—don't torture me! Please...don't...please.....don't...don't....”
Jesus bent down easily and balanced on the balls of His feet. He somehow seemed to shine even brighter next to the sniveling creature that cringed pitifully upon the floor before Him.
Jesus's words were simple:
“You have something of mine.”
He extended a hand, and the devil recoiled, crying out.
But, he fumbled within himself and his cloak, desperately searching for something, as if it hurt him to keep whatever he was looking for. There was a jingling sound, and a trembling hand finally produced a rusty ring of keys that seemed to be cut from darkness itself—but when they were held forth they glowed a dark, tarnished bronze. They seemed to sear the devil's hand like a living coal, and Jesus reached forth and too the keys to Death in His own. Immediately, the devil drew his hand back into himself, nursing it and whimpering until the saliva ran forth from his mouth onto the carpet.
Jesus smiled, and straightened up. The devil took this opportunity to, stumbling, fling himself upon his face into the nearest corner, squishing four medium-sized demons in the process, who cried out in protest and bit back.
Jesus turned for the door, casting one last glance upon the destroyed room that had been reserved a few short hours ago for the celebration of His death.
A smile played upon his lips.
There was no door to close. He left them, cowering and trembling in the gloom, and the sound of His laughter echoed and lingered about the room long after He had gone, bringing down more plaster from the ceiling.
