The Book of Ronald

In the land of Uz there was a man named Ronald. Nobody ever called him “Ronald,” though, only “Ron,” and that was when they didn’t call him “drunk bastard,” or “there he is! Get ‘im!” Ronald drank so much that beer wasn’t even able to get him drunk anymore, a fact of which he was deeply resentful.

Ron was a prideful man. He was prideful of his prodigious beard which he never combed and which contained all manner of morsels that he could pick out to snack on at any given time. He was also prideful of his horse: a half-starved, mad-eyed creature which was too skinny to pull anything but which was, nevertheless, the only one in town. This was on account of, as his neighbors put it, horses being a “vain hope for deliverance.” They were always sneaking into his farm and trying to cut out the creature’s hamstrings, declaring that they were following in the footsteps of some pious god-botherer, “Joshua,” as Yahweh had commanded. Ron fended them off with the help of a hefty stick, even cracked one of the little whelps a good one on the skull. Ron had a strong arm, of which he was also proud, but the boy was unconscious for a week. That was a long week of camping out in the hills with his scrawny horse because, if the boy had slipped away the one way rather than back the other, Ron would have been in for it for sure, and a stick, even a very good stick of iron-hard acacia, wouldn’t fend off the entire town if they came for him. It wouldn’t have been Ron’s fault, of course; he was only defending his property, but, in the eyes of the village, murder was murder. They were only envious of his old nag, and envy was a sin, which was why he had all the right to defend his property with whatever force was necessary.

Aside from his old horse, Ron didn’t own much of account. A couple of ewes milled about his farm and a temperamental black ram butted anything in sight. Ron would have eaten the spiteful creature years ago, except, without him, there would be no lambs. There weren’t any lambs anyway–at least none who survived long–but old Black Danny kept the ewes producing milk, and Ron got a decent enough crop of barley in the summer. On rare occasion, Ron’s sheep produced enough milk to trade for a haunch of goat, and, between the milk, barley, and tough dried goat, he remained fed.

It was nothing like the bounty of that bedeviled charlatan up on the hill, Job, who claimed to hear voices and smoked up the town every Saturday with his extravagant sacrificial altars. Now that was pride, and pride was, of course, a sin, so Ron had every right to spit at the man’s feet when he passed him in the street. The people didn’t see it that way, of course. Three of them had tried to hold him down in the dirt and kiss the man’s sandalled toes. He had gnarly toes–callused and thick-nailed. A man who doesn’t take the care to keep his feet cleaner than that didn’t have any right to call himself pious. After all, Ron himself hardly ever got calluses on his feet, nor on his hands, and anybody who didn’t take the care to keep himself from looking like a horn-footed mountain goat was surely just plain slothful.

Sloth was, of course, a sin, so Job was prideful and lazy to boot, not to mention jealous of his herds. They multiplied like rabbits and trampled over all the shady places where Ron liked to take a lie-down during the day.

The man couldn’t even grow a proper beard (not like Ron’s matted hedge), and had to cover for it by keeping it nicely trimmed and groomed so nobody would suspect. Ron figured that factored under “lying,” which might not be a sin, but certainly did not an honorable man make!

To add offense to injury, the prideful little man had forgiven Ron, and ordered the three thugs to let him up and on his way. The nerve. After all, Ron remembered when good old Job was still in swaddling clothes. Granted, Ron himself was no more than four at the time, but that still made Ron Job’s elder, and Ronald could have swatted him a good one when Job was too weak to do anything about it but cry and he had restrained himself. Did the Lord not command to respect one’s elders? Now what kind of way was that to show respect, turning the other cheek and forcing him into your debt?

That was the state that the world was coming to these days; It was despicable. It was pure greed, that’s what it was, and maybe even a touch of wrath. Granted, Job hadn’t hit Ronald, or even let the thugs force him to kiss the man’s hoofed toes, but, when it came to weak men, sometimes wrath overtook them that way: overpowered their good sense and gnawed away inside of them. It wasn’t good to keep all that anger inside, but greedy, power-hungry men were like that; they liked to store up all of their anger and put it to real good use. That’s what Job had put to use, Ron supposed, when he came down the hill and offered to buy Ronald’s emaciated sheep off of him. The man wanted him to starve! Job just envied Ron his good stock. The man even had two wives, while Ron himself had none, and Ron had seen the sumptuous feasts that they prepared whenever one of their children had a birthday.

Between Ronald and everybody else, when the old codger had his crops burned, livestock slaughtered, and family and servants murdered, Ronald had laughed. Served him right. Pride, sloth, greed, wrath, envy, lust, and gluttony, they were all there right where anybody could see them, and all seven were, of course–

“RONALD!” boomed a voice. Ron jolted out of his nap under the gnarled olive tree. One of Job’s white-faced nanny goats nibbled at his hat and he thumped her a good one between the eyes. The pitiful creature fell onto her knees before wobbling back to her feet and beating a hasty retreat across the plain. Ron rubbed the sleep from his eyes and glanced around, but there was nobody else in the valley but him and an evil-looking black billy goat. He could have sworn that somebody had said his name–shouted it, even–but it must have only been a dream. He took a deep swig of beer from the skin on the ground beside him, most of it ending up on the front of his tunic, and laid back down.

“RONALD!”

This time, he had definitely heard it. Ron leapt to his feet and snatched up his heavy acacia stick, ready to wallop anybody who thought it was a good idea to go shouting like that at a sleeping man.

“Show yourself, you little gobsucker, and I’ll thump you a good one, I swear I will!”

"Do you think he meant ‘show yourself or I’ll thump you?” a smaller, more cunning voice asked. Now that was a kind of voice a man could get behind. Anybody with that kind of voice could be thumped a good three before his twisted little mind caught up to reality.

"I’ll do both, on all that’s holy, now get out of there!” Ron picked up a rock in his left hand and heaved it at a nearby scrub-bush–the only thing big enough nearby to conceal a person.

“Oops, look at that, missed by a mile,” the second voice jeered, and Ron’s blood really began to boil. If they were after his horse again, he swore by his good right arm that he’d wallop them so hard they’d be wearing their asses for earmuffs. Ron snatched the huge waterskin of beer and gulped down the rest of it in preparation for a fight.

“IS THIS ONE REALLY YOUR FINEST?” The first voice asked. It had the same sanctimonious quality of that whoreson Job–the kind of superior tone that promised forgiveness and compassion. The arrogance. “I MEAN, HE’S NOT EXACTLY…”

“Yes yes!” the second voice interrupted. Ron had good ears. He listened and took aim…

“HE CAN BARELY STAND UPRIGHT. LOOK AT HIM HE’S–”

Ron hurled his stick into the bush. A squeak and a meaty thump issued from the bush at the same time.

“OH, LOOK AT HIM. HE’S JUST KILLED THAT POOR LITTLE RABBIT. THIS REALLY IS A SORRY DISPLAY, LUCY, I HAVE TO SAY.”

“Hah!” the second voice laughed, and Ron stormed over to the bush. He tore it aside with one hand and lunged with the other. He nearly tumbled into it himself when his burly fist met with nothing but open air. There was a dead hare and a heavy length of acacia. “I told you, if I can’t turn one of yours, then point for you, but you just try to turn one of mine. I dare you. Look at that thick skull, you think you’re getting anywhere with that. This is one of my proudest projects and I can already say, point to me. So who’s Almighty now, eh?” the voice snickered from behind.

Thick skull? Thick skull?! Well then, Ron would show these troublemakers what a thick skull could do. He whirled around, ready to bloody some noses.

“BOO!” the black goat shouted, standing up on its hind legs a full head and shoulders above Ron. CRACK went his skull on the hard acacia stick as he stumbled backwards into the bush, and then everything went black.

~ ~~ ~~

God and Lucifer stood over the unconscious man, the front of his tunic sopping with beer and sweat, blood leaking into the thirsty earth from his scalp.

“WELL NOW YOU'VE GONE AND DONE IT,” God said, holding a palm to Their own forehead and taking Their own name in vain. “BUT DAMN DID HE WALLOP ME A GOOD ONE. LOOK AT THAT.” God held out their hand and showed Lucifer the red blossom of blood that stained it. Lucifer passed a palm over the welt and in a flicker of light it disappeared. “THANK YOU.”

The two divinities didn’t look all that different really. Oh sure, Lucifer was more beautiful, while the God Almighty had more of a humble ruggedness about him, and, of course, one draped themself in a white toga, for one reason or another, while the other wore a silk kaftan of pure black. Both carried themselves with the same air of patient certainty and the timeless loveliness of something ambiguously in between male and female. Perhaps it was the set of the brow that drove the relation home.

“You were the one who decided to use the God voice on him. But I’ll admit, I didn’t think he’d fall like that,” Lucifer said, running a hand through their hair. “I really do hate the way that humans flail about so much.”

“HATE THE SIN, NOT THE SINNER,” intoned God in a voice like growing mountains.

“Thank you oh mighty one.” Lucifer rolled his eyes. “Well,” he said, straightening his clothing. Silk was comfortable, but it really did seem to have a mind of its own sometimes. Good thick wool was certainly less of a hassle. “Care to make a wager,” he asked in cockney drawl. Anachronistic? Sure, but the Devil never was much of a one for tradition.

God nodded. “YOU TAKE HIS LEGS AND I'LL GET THE HEAD?”

“Oooh no! I won’t have you getting up to any of your mischief before the game’s begun. I’ll get the head.” The two hoisted Ronald up, the Devil grumbling the entire time about miracles and the pride of holiness.

~~ ~~ ~~

Ron came-to leaning against the side of the well in the center of town. He came to consciousness, but he also came to a splitting headache that felt like his brain was about to leak out of his ears. He groaned and pulled himself upright, feeling tenderly at the gash under his hair. With a grunt, he aimed a kick at the white nanny goat nibbling at his tunic. She danced away out of reach.

“ALRIGHT,” said the goat. “FIRST LESSON: DON'T KICK THE ME-DAMNED LIVESTOCK!”

Ron groaned again and began hoisting the barrel up from the well. It was unfiltered and thick with dirt, but it was wet, and he gulped it down, runnels of the stuff leaking down his beard.

“ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?” the goat asked, trotting up and nibbling on Ron’s sandal before immediately regretting the action.

“Oh God, that is simply disgusting,” a swirl of red dirt chittered.

“I DON'T THINK HE'S LISTENING TO ME AT ALL! LOOK HERE RONALD–”

Ron aimed another kick at the white goat who danced out of reach again.

“HOW RUDE! LOOK HERE YOU BLOCKHEAD!,” she said, raising a rear hoof to kick the main squarely in the rump. “I'M–”

“Eh eh eh!” the dust devil interrupted. “No touching the merchandise. You remember the rules. You break it, you buy it.”

“AND TO THINK,” the nanny goat huffed, but lowered the hoof, “THEY CALL PRIESTS GOD BOTHERERS.”

“Water from a stone and all that,” the devil chided. “And so spaketh the Lord, ‘everything he has is in your power, but on the man himself do not lay a finger.’”

“WHY ISN'T HE LISTENING TO ME? WHAT DID YOU DO?”

“Me?!” The devil scoffed with damaged pride. “I didn’t do anything. It must have been that thump on the head that knocked something loose.”

“OH YOU CHEATING NE'ERDOWELL!”

“What are you going to do, kick me out of the house a second time?”

The she-goat chuffed in irritation as Ron finally set the bucket back down, gulping for air.

“Ne'er do well?” the devil laughed. “Update your dictionary grandpa, just call me a son of a bi–”

“LANGUAGE! REMEMBER, 'ON THE DAY OF JUDGEMENT PEOPLE WILL GIVE ACCOUNT FOR EVERY CARELOSS WORD THEY SPEAK.'"

“I thought I was being plenty careful, but I can do better if you like,” the Devil sniffed. “Son. Of. A. Bit–”

“IT DOES NOT MATTER. IS IT NOT SAID THE LORD WORKS IN MYSTERIOUS WAYS?”

“Yeah, by you. When you don't feel like explaining yourself.”

~~ ~~ ~~

“ALRIGHT, HERE WE ARE,” God said, untying the wrists of the girl in the pit.

“And this is…”

“THIS IS A CLASSIC,” God chuckled to themself. “SHE’S A CHALDEAN, YOU SEE. THEY’RE ONE OF THE BAD GUYS IN THESE PARTS. I DID IT WITH A JEW AND A SAMARITAN THE FIRST TIME, BUT A CHALDEAN AND RONALD OUGHT TO WORK OUT JUST AS WELL. HE’LL COME ACROSS THE PIT ON HIS WAY HOME, SEE HER AT THE BOTTOM, I’LL WHISPER WORDS OF COMPASSION IN HIS EAR AND HIS CONSCIENCE WILL SIMPLY TEAR HIM APART IF HE DOESN’T CLIMB DOWN AND HELP HER.”

“But–and understand oh almighty one I am but a foolish sinner who knows not what he says–just thinking aloud here… you were the one who put her in the pit to begin with.”

“WELL YES, OF COURSE. HOW ELSE IS HE SUPPOSED TO HELP HER OUT OF IT?”

“Doesn’t it seem counterintuitive to create a problem in order to force somebody to solve it for you? That’s like throwing a glass on the ground and then saying that somebody doesn’t love you if they don’t clean it up.”

“IT’S NOT LIKE THAT AT ALL; IT’S THE INEFFABLE PLAN.”

“Sounds like it would be pretty damn effable if you just didn’t create the problem in the first place.”

“SHE’S A CHALDEAN; SHE DOESN’T COUN–OH SHIT, HERE HE COMES.”

Ron came limping up the path in the kind of way that terminal complainers like to do to showcase how injured they are, even if the injury isn’t on their leg, and the white goat bah’d in distress. The black billy cropped disinterestedly at a patch of scrub. Ronald limped up to the edge of the pit, grumbling about damn kids digging pits right where he needed to walk, and stopped abruptly when he saw the figure at the bottom. She wasn’t “stripped and beaten half to death,” as had happened to a certain traveler from Jerusalem to Jericho–she was still a girl after all–but she was stuck at the bottom of a deep pit. In the baking sun, it was unlikely that she would be able to get out before dehydration overtook her, and she seemed to be fast asleep.

“YOU MUST HELP HER,” God whispered. “SHE’LL DIE WITHOUT YOU. WHAT KIND OF MAN WOULD YOU BE IF YOU DIDN’T RESCUE A POOR INNOCENT CHALDEAN GIRL?”

“Right, here’s what you’ve gotta do,” the Devil proposed in matter of fact terms. “She can’t stop you. Climb down into that pit, strip off that tunic, and just go to tow–”

“LUCIFER!”

“Oh, alright,” Satan grumbled. “We have the PG police here apparently. Leave her, then and go get the police, or the gendarmerie, or whatever it is you have here. Tell them that you have information about a Chaldean spy, and lead them here in exchange for a reward of–and here I must be firm–no fewer than five sheep.”

Ronald’s face was growing redder by the moment, as if the moral conflict was physically pressurizing inside of him.

“IT’S ALRIGHT, RONALD, JUST TAKE IT ONE STEP AT A TIME. CLIMB DOWN FIRST.”

“I think he’s gonna blow,” Satan remarked.

“NOBODY’S GOING TO END UP BLOWN,” God said reproachfully.

“Heheheh,” the Devil chuckled.

“SHUT UP.”

“Sorry, oh, whoops, there he goes.”

While they bickered, Ron had taken off in a lumbering canter around the pit and down the road. It wasn’t exactly the fear of God that had set him off, nor fear of the Devil. Not precisely. It was just plain and simply fear of voices chattering in his head. The fear of ghosts, maybe, and Ron certainly would have no truck with ghosts.

“OH, ME-DAMMIT,” God muttered.

“One point to me.”

“RONALD!”

“He’s not going to stop, I’ve already gotten him.”

“YOU HAVEN’T GOT ANYTHING. RONALD, YOU GET BACK HERE THIS INSTANT!”

Inexplicably, the bolting man stopped dead in his tracks, turned on his heel, and walked purposefully back to the pit.

“I TOLD YOU SO.”

The Devil watched on through an impassive peanut-shaped pupil.

“NOW YOU GO DOWN TO HER IMMEDIATELY.”

“You mean on her,” the Devil chuckled.

“I DO NOT.”

Ron climbed down the side of the pit.

“PICK HER UP.”

Ron rolled the sleeping girl over.

“THAT’S ALRIGHT, SECOND TIMES THE CHARM. PICK HER UP.”

Ron began rifling through the basket that lay crushed beneath the girl.

“RONALD WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?”

The Devil, for his part, could barely contain his laughter. The white goat shot a pointed glare in the billy’s direction.

“PICK UP THAT GIRL THIS INSTANT OR I SWEAR TO ME I WILL SMITE YOU WHERE YOU STAND.”

“Water from a–”

“DON’T SAY IT,” the white sheep growled.

The billy shut up

Ron pulled a small linen sachet from the basket, opened it up, gave it a sniff, and stuffed it into the sash of his tunic before clambering back out of the pit again and hurrying off down the road.

“BOLLOCKS.”

“I told you so,” gloated the billy, sidling up next to the ewe. “What do you think was in that?”

“HOW SHOULD I KNOW?”

“You’re omnipotent, aren’t you?”

“SHE IS A CHALDEAN. WHAT IS THERE TO KNOW ABOUT CHALDEANS?”

“Who was she anyway?” the billy asked, peering into the pit at the peacefully sleeping girl.

The ewe affected a shrug as best as possible for a goat. “THE DAUGHTER OF SOME MERCHANT JUST BACK FROM SOMEWHERE IN THE ALTAI REGION.”

“You gonna help her out of the pit?”

The white ewe began to trot off after the retreating Ron.

The billy sighed, clambered down the side of the pit, and began dragging the unconscious girl out as best he could.

~~ ~~ ~~

The whole way back to Ron’s little hut, the white ewe remained locked in consternation, trotting a ways behind Ron and a ways ahead of the billy.

“You got another scheme?” The devil called ahead.

“I DON’T SCHEME,” God said. “I PLAN, AND MY PLANS ARE INEFFABLE.”

“Seem pretty effable to me,” grumbled the devil.

“WHAT WAS THAT?”

“Nothing, oh great and mighty one!”

“WELL, IF YOU MUST KNOW,” said God in reply to no question, in the way of all professional lecturers, “tHERE’S A HORDE OF EGYPTIAN HORSEMEN ON THEIR WAY TO THE VALLEY RIGHT NOW.”

“There are?”

“YES.”

“What, all the way out here, in Uz? Gosh, that’s a long way. Did they load the horses on ships?”

“HOW SHOULD I KNOW?”

“You’re omniscient aren’t y–”

“THEY’RE EGYPTIANS! WHAT IS THERE TO KNOW ABOUT EGYPTIANS?”

“Didn’t you bring them here?”

“I BROUGHT EVERYTHING HERE–IN SIX DAYS. I’D LIKE TO SEE YOU DO THAT.”

“Why would I? Wouldn’t be very fun to subvert and twist my own creations, now would it? I’d have to create some kind of secondary divinity to torment them for me, and where would be the fun in that? Oh wait.”

The white ewe glowered.

“So why are they here?”

“THEY’RE GOING TO LAY WASTE TO RONALD’S FIELDS, HIS LIVESTOCK, HIS WIFE AND CHILDRE–“

“Doesn’t have any of them.”

“WHAT?”

“Commensurate bachelor, I’m afraid.”

“WELL, HIS FIELDS AND LIVESTOCK THEN.”

“He’s got a barley patch, and a few scrawny sheep if that’s what you mean.”

“IT’S BESIDE THE POINT! THE POINT IS, HE’LL SEE HOW HORSES ARE NOTHING BUT A VAIN HOPE FOR DELIVERANCE, AND TAKE TO HIS HEART THE COMMAND I GAVE UNTO JOSHUA. HE WILL HAMSTRING HIS EGOTISTICAL MACHINE OF WAR AND REPENT FOR HIS SINS!”

The devil chuckled. “He’s heard that one before.”

“THIS WILL BE THE FINAL TIME.”

Ron came round a curve in the valley and stopped dead at what he saw spread out before him.

“BEHOLD! THE TRAPPINGS OF VANITY AND GREED!” God said expansively.

The black billy trotted around the hill by Ron, who aimed a half-hearted kick at him.

“Wow,” said the devil. “I’ve never seen a horde like this. Truly, it’s like no horde I’ve ever imagined.”

The white ewe trotted up beside.

“WHAT?! ONE HORSEMAN?!”

The billy grinned, insofar as goats can grin. “He must be pretty strong, eh?”

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?” God demanded.

“Me? I haven’t done anything! You were the one who summoned this one-man horde.”

“I DIDN’T SUMMON ANYTHING,” the ewe growled.

“Really? You said you did.”

“I DON’T SUMMON. IT’S ALL PART OF THE GREAT PLAN.”

“Oh yeah, I can see that. This is a great plan alright.”

Meanwhile, Ron was approaching the horseman, leading his own scrawny mare by its rope.

The white ewe followed and demanded: “YOU THERE! WHERE’S THE REST OF YOUR HORDE?”

“I’m sorry sir, what horde?” the swarthy man asked in Egyptian.

“I don’t speak foreigner,” Ron said in his own tongue.

The rider looked from Ron to the goats, and back again. “I’m sorry sir, I don’t speak foreigner,” the rider replied in Egyptian.

“What?” said Ron.

“What?” said the rider.

“Look,” Ron said slowly, as if speaking very deliberately and with great intonation would get his message across. “How. Much. For. Your. Horse?”

“What? Speak proper Egyptian. You just did it, I heard you.” Said the Egyptian.

“Oh dear,” said the black billy. “I do think you may have confused the poor fellow.”

The Egyptians eyes flashed wildly between the man and the animals, and he gasped, “Devils!” the word for which in his own language just so happened to sound like “seventy four” in Ron’s own.

“Seventy four what?”

“Yes, devils!”

“Seventy four what?!”

The Egyptian unsheathed his sword with a flourish and leapt from the saddle, closing on Ron and the two goats.

“Woah! Whoah woah!” Ron shouted, holding his hands in the air and dropping his stick. “Okay, fine, seventy four. I can’t afford it!”

“I will free you from their evil influence, you poor man!”

“I don’t even want the damn horse anyway!” Ron shrieked, tripping over a rock and scrambling away.

“RENOUNCE THE TRAPPINGS OF PRIDE, RONALD,” God commanded, but Ron showed no signs of hearing. The Egyptian, on the other hand, stopped in his tracks, confused by the new voice from the white ewe. “GIVE THIS MAN YOUR BEAST OF WAR AND LIVE A LIFE OF PIETY IN MY NAME, AND YOU WILL BE EVER WELCOME IN MY KINGDOM!”

“Gosh,” commented Satan, “you really hate horses, don’t you.”

“THEY SMELL.”

“So do oxen.”

“YOU CAN EAT OXEN.”

“You can eat horses too. Just ask the Swedes.”

“THE WHO?”

“Nevermind. Look here Ronald, this is what you’ve gotta do: kill this man, take his horse, and then you’ll be a whole horse richer.”

“DON’T LISTEN TO THIS TEMPTER, RONALD. LIVE A LIFE OF COMPASSION AND HUMILITY. DENOUNCE PRIDE AND SIN!”

“‘Tempter this,’ ‘tempter that,’ you know, I’m getting really tired of this whole tempter business. I told you, that wasn’t me in the garden. It was just some lousy snake. I’ve still got my legs, don’t I?”

“DECEIVER.”

“Well, that one’s true at least. Ronald, stand up.”

Ronald stood up. The Egyptian brandished his sword at the goats.

“What are you devils?”

“Yes,” said the Devil.

“NO,” said the Lord. “RONALD, REPEAT AFTER ME.” In Egyptian, God said, “KIND SIR, I WISH TO GIVE YOU THIS HORSE SO I MAY LIVE A LIFE FREE OF VANITY.”

“He wishes to give me his horse?” The Egyptian asked.

“No,” said the Devil.

“YES,” said the Lord.

“What in the hell are you saying man!” Ronald nearly shrieked in exasperation. “Why are you talking to those damned goats?” He kicked at the billy, who scoffed and snapped at his ankle.

The Egyptian took a measured step away and sheathed his blade, never taking his eyes from the animals. As he did so, the edge of the blade sliced at the thong that held a sheaf of papyri to his belt and the papers strewed across the dirt. He swore and bent to pick them up.

“Now is the time to strike, Ronald. Club him over the head while his sword is away.”

“SHOW CHARITY RONALD. GIVE UP YOUR HORSE WHICH YOU COVET SO DEARLY AND TURN AWAY FROM THIS PAGAN!”

The Egyptian for his part, only cast a glance at Ron as he scooped up his papyri.

Ron watched him warily. “What is that?”

“Papyri,” said the Devil.

“Papyri,” said the Egyptian.

“It’s a sort of weak cloth made of river reeds used to write on.”

“Papyri, eh?” Ron asked, stooping beside the fallen papers himself. “Hey, this looks useful! How much do you want for it?”

The Egyptian looked to the goats as if they were the man’s interpreters. The white ewe turned away. The billy only shrugged.

“You like these?” Most of the pages were blank. The ones with writing on them only seemed to be a sort of ledger. A ledger for what was anybody’s guess. The man had no merchandise.

“How. Much. Do. You. Want. For. This?” Ron asked slowly, gesticulating wildly. A manic sort of gleam in his eye.

“Kill him, Ronald.”

“RONALD, SPARE HIM.”

In a mix of slow deliberate speech and what could only have been called interpretive dance, the two men worked out a deal, to the horror of both animals, and the Egyptian rode cautiously away with Ron’s horse while Ron flipped through the intriguing bundle of Papyri.

“WHAT DOES HE EVEN WANT THEM FOR?”

“Beats me,” said the Devil. “Maybe he’s going to write a novel.”

“OH, ME PRESERVE US FROM THAT. HE REALLY CAN’T HEAR US AT ALL, CAN HE?”

“He doesn’t need to hear me,” assured the Devil. “I’m already in his heart. You on the other hand…”

“I’M IN EVERYBODY’S HEART. I INVENTED THE PULMONARY SYSTEM. TRICKY BIT OF WORK THAT WAS.”

“Whatever you say.”

“WHAT I MEAN IS, WHAT IS HE DOING? I MEAN, WAS THAT A POINT FOR ME OR A POINT FOR YOU?”

“I think that was a point for Ronald. Sooo…” the billy considered.

“SO A POINT FOR ME,” said God.

“So a point for me,” said the Devil.

~~ ~~ ~~

“Ah,” the Devil said back at Ron’s hut. “One last trick up your sleeve.”

“I DON’T TRICK. THAT’S YOU.”

“Granted, granted, but this one’s a doozy. The old ‘only my own followers know how to properly light a fire’ routine. Tell me, did you secretly piss on the pyres of Baal when the priests’ backs were turned back in Elijah’s day too, or is that a new twist?”

The ewe didn’t reply.

“Alright, alright. I’ll leave you to your handywork.”

“I JUST DON’T UNDERSTAND WHY HE CAN’T HEAR ME. IT’S TYING ALL MY STOMACHS UP IN KNOTS TRYING TO FIGURE IT OUT.”

“I told you, the bump on his head.”

“BUT HE CAN’T HEAR YOU EITHER.”

“Oh, he can. He just thinks that it’s him. That’s the beauty of being a deceiver and all that.”

“NO,” the ewe shook her head as the two watched Ronald blowing on the tinder through a reed. “I DON’T THINK HE CAN. LOOK AT HIS EYES.”

“They just look like eyes to me,” the Devil shrugged. “You know, this trick’ll be obsolete in a few millennia once they invent gasoline. That stuff’ll make anything burn, wet or not. You know I saw somebody the other day throwing whole bags of the stuff over a bonfire in the rain, trying to get it to light. It’s like–”

“IT’S LIKE THERE’S A SMOKE OVER THEM,” God said, interrupting Satan’s monologue.

“It’s probably the drink.”

The ewe scoffed. “THAT MAN COULDN’T GET DRUNK IF HE BROKE INTO A DISTILLERY AND DRANK EVERYTHING LABELED ‘XXXX.’”

“That’s why he does it so much.”

“YOU DO SOMETHING. GO IN THERE, SHOW HIM LASCIVIOUS TEMPTATIONS.”

“I told you, that wasn’t me!”

“JUST DO IT.”

The devil grumbled. “Oh, alright, but just because you asked so nicely.” He began shucking out of his kaftan and rocking his hips to a beat only he could hear.

“NO, NOT LIKE THAT!” God snapped. “I MEAN USE…” he looked around before whispering, “MAGIC,” as if the word burned his tongue just to say.

“Oh oh oh! My bad, I thought you meant, heheh,” the devil chuckled, pulling his kaftan back up. “Ahem.” He raised his hands and waggled his fingers. “Abracadabra!” Instantly, the hut was filled with luscious scents and draping silks. Full-figured women lounged across the sparse furniture and gold dishes heaped with all manner of delicacies covered every surface. Ron just kept blowing on his fire. The Devil grimaced. “Alakazam.” A full court orchestra like Ron’s millennium had never heard rang out with music beautiful enough to make a grown man weep, and golden fruits sprouted in an instant from the rafters. Ron only blew harder. The Devil groaned. “Meka-leka hi meka-hiney–”

“ENOUGH, I’M GOING IN THERE,” God interrupted. There’s devilry afoot.

“Well yeah, you told me to–oh here he goes! First idol is coming out.” Ron pulled an idol of a golden calf from a shelf and prayed before it. He blew on the fire. Nothing happened.

“RENOUNCE YOUR IDOLS AND ACCEPT ME INTO YOUR HEART!” God commanded, frozen on the doorstep.

Ron pulled another idol of a fat woman with massive buttocks from the shelf and prayed before it. Blow. Nothing.

“Don’t listen to this pious windbag, Ronald. All those gods were around well before he was, you know. He’s only popular because Abraham couldn’t keep it in his pants.”

Down came an idol of a nude man sitting with a flute in his hands. There was a slip and a tumble and then the sound of a clay sculpture shattering into a dozen different pieces.

“Oh, now you’ve done it. Look at that. Do you know how long it must have taken somebody to make that?”

“HERE IT COMES,” said the Lord with bated breath. “THE COME TO PAPA MOMENT.”

“I think the term is ‘come to Jesus moment,’” whispered the Devil.

“NO, THAT ONE’S MY KID.”

Ron was frantic now, blowing harder on the ember than ever before, nearly springing tears to his eyes from the effort, shoveling more and more tinder atop as the ember burned it away but didn’t catch.

“LIGHTS, CAMERA AAAND…”

Ron accidentally puffed inward on the reed and inhaled a hefty lung of smoke. He fell back, coughing and swearing.

“Was that the come to papa?”

“NO, ME DAMN YOU IT WASN’T. WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?! THAT’S IT, I’M GOING TO–” The ewe began stomping over to the man on the floor of the hut.

“Water from a stone,” the Devil warned. “Water from a stone!”

“I’LL GET WATER FROM THIS STONE IF IT’S THE LAST THING I DO.”

“No!” The billy leapt on the ewe and wrestled her to the ground.

“LET ME AT HIM, I’LL–WHAT’S HE DOING? WHAT IS THAT?”

Ron’s eyes had gone from the reed to the papyri, the reed to the papyri. He rolled a pinch of the sticky green leaf from the Chaldean woman’s pouch up in a thin strip of the Egyptian’s papyrus and had it held between his lips.

“WHAT IS HE DOING?”

The energy coming off the ewe was palpable even through the thick wool. The billy hardly dared to hold on any longer. When the Big Man started feeling like this, people got turned to salt.

Ron patted his nonexistent pockets for the uninvented book of matches that was the universal sign of smokers everywhere.

The ewe lept, fury crackling off her fur.

Ronald spoke the magic words: “Anybody got a light?”

In the instant of flame flaring to life at the end of the cigarette, time slowed and stopped, and the Lord and Satan stood alone amidst scenery. Except they weren’t alone. A third figure sat in a patch of grass that had inexplicably sprung up in the middle of the floor.

God and the devil looked at each other.

The figure sat up.

“IS THAT A MUMU?” God asked out of the corner of his mouth.

“I think it’s a kimono,” the Devil whispered back.

“IT’S VERY COLORFUL,” God remarked.

“Hmm,” grunted the Devil. “Reminds me of that coat your Joseph had.”

“I WAS THINKING THE EXACT THING!”

“Nihongo ga wakarimasu ka?” the newcomer asked.

“WAS THAT JAPANESE?” God whispered.

“I think it was. Does Japan exist yet?”

“NOT TO MY KNOWLEDGE, BUT THERE’S A LOT I HAVE TO KEEP TRACK OF.” In a louder voice, he said very deliberately and slowly, “WE. DON’T. SPEAK. FOREIGNER.”

“Oh,” the figure amended, and in perfect accent said, “Hello my fellow divinity,” he inclined his head to God, “Profanity,” he nodded to the Devil. “Well, it looks like I won!”

“Won what?” the Devil asked, stepping forward.

“Our wager, of course. Who would win over Ronald’s soul and all that.”

“You weren’t a part of that bet.”

“Well then,” said the stranger, smiling amiably, “how did I win?”

“You didn’t!” cried the Devil. “We didn’t even know you were here! Were you the one meddling with all our schemes?”

“PLANS,” God corrected. “WHO IN MY NAME ARE YOU?”

“Ooasahiko-no-Okami, at your service.” The god bowed deeply.

“‘OKAMI,’ THAT’S SHINTO, ISN’T IT? WHAT ARE YOU DOING INTERFERING ALL THE WAY OUT HERE?” God asked.

The deity in the rainbow kimono rose to his feet and the grass shrunk away back into the earth. “I’m branching out, and it looks like I just got my first branch. Yay!” he clapped like a child.

“WHAT ARE YOU THE GOD OF THEN, CIGARETTES?”

“Oh no, nothing so crass. I consider myself a connoisseur of, shall I say, the herb of Altai.”

God and the devil looked blank.

“The wacky tobacky?”

Nothing.

“The Devil’s lettuce, or, oops, perhaps not appropriate in present company.”

“THIS IS YOUR DOING!” God whirled on the Devil.

“I swear it isn’t,” the Devil said quickly, holding his hands out in a warding gesture, understanding flittering across his face. He turned to the man in the tie dye kimono. “Are you saying you just gave this man marijuana?”

“No,” the god in the rainbow kimono asserted concretely. “That is a common mistake, but ‘marijuana’ is a term fraught with negative implications. I prefer the name 'cannabis.’ Cannabis indica, to be exact. This dude needs to just chill out a bit, especially after having you two yelling at him all day. I had a hard enough time keeping him muffled from you, but it’s still not nice having people shout at you even if you can’t understand what they’re saying.”

“WHAT DO YOU WANT?” God demanded, all business.

The new god’s face went blank. “Want? I don’t want anything. I just want this dude to have the day off and be a little nicer to people. I think you two could use a little too, if I’m being honest. You want some? I have plenty.”

“WE DON’T WANT ANY OF YOUR GARBAGE,” the Lord growled.

“I’ll take some, thanks,” said the Devil, accepting the proffered sachet. “So, you followed us all day, ruining our game, just to get Ronald high? Is that what I’m understanding?”

Ooasahiko-no-Okami shrugged. “More or less, yep. And he’s mine now, so you two can leave him to me, thanks.”

“RONALD IS MINE,” God growled.

“He’s mine,” the Devil said matter-of-factly.

“No,” said Ooasahiko-no-Okami simply. “He’s mine, and neither of you are going to take him away from me."

God scowled. So spaketh the lord: “GET ‘IM.”

The Devil grinned. In badly affected cockney, he said, “Care to make a wager?”