These 2 stories, The Missing Man and The Losing Game deal with the darker side of religion and may not be suitable for children.
"You will hear of wars,
and rumors of wars."
They found him sitting lotus form on a park bench that was really a concrete cube with his red and white Air Maxes taken off and lying temptingly in the grass. It was mid morning and the sunlight played upon their skin and clothes, through the jacarandas by the pond-side, choreographed by distant birdsong. Brother, they asked him, do you know the Lord?
3am on the North-South Expressway and the Land Rover was doing 140 mph yet still being passed by sporadic traffic that flashed their headlights. Do you know how poor we are now? Asked the driver. No, he said, aware as anyone would be, of the financial difficulties they all had to bear since the outbreak. You see pretty girls asking for donations anymore? I guess not. The driver huffed a mild sneer. Human nature, too little too late. The jeep turned off into a palm-lined street dotted with all-night Indian bistros. Let's have a naan said the driver, checking his e-wallet.
He was good at blowing the dizi, the Chinese bamboo flute. They found two of them among his artifacts. Side by side on a plastic crate full of junk computer parts. The blond woman picked up the larger one. It was longer than her arm outstretched and thick so she could barely encircle it with her fingers. She had come to see her old friend, by air, all the way from Switzerland, only to find weeping relations and his vacant room. When they met in Manchester, he seemed a man under a death sentence, being very brave, and she wanted him in bed. Now he was missing. She sat on his thin mattress divan and dabbed at her running mascara.
They dipped the puffy Indian flatbread into a shallow dish of bean and chickpea curry, from tubs kept warm under heat lights. The tall Pakistani man who baked their supper smiling gratefully through his beard, by the stone drum oven. On the TV screens hanging from the ceiling, footage of the new silent submarines commissioned by the navy, decked in the national flag and military livery. Smart young men standing proud by the dry dock and on the narrow deck as a brass band played. When was the last time you saw an arms race? Asked the jeep driver. People protect what little they have left when they have little left to protect. He laughed out loud. Diminishing returns. Of a sudden, he didn't feel like breaking anymore of the bread, sucking instead on the iced Bru and condensed milk latte with eyes downcast. The Pakistani drew up a chair and the driver transferred him e-credits in exchange for the news he was unspooling from Friday cheramahs at the mosque.
Aaron's staff that budded and Moses' tablets upon which Jehovah wrote the law. What happened to them? The pastor asked the small group gathered in the office space on one of the habitable floors of the unfinished tower. Through the glass floor-to-ceiling window panes, he could see Kuala Lumpur's sprawl, pale afternoon sunshine glinting off the condos and low-rises, the roofs and windscreens of cars mowing down the endless loops of highways. They were placed in the Ark, said one of the group. As what? Replied the pastor. Power? Ventured another. Symbols of God's power. Now the Ark is placed in the temple, said the preacher, in the holy of holies in the temple. The temple is our body -the body He gave us. Not mere power, he said. But the power to resurrect, and it was shown. The Kingdom lies within. He glanced down at his Nikes, worn without socks, and clicked his heels. He was still in Malaysia, nothing had changed.
She lay in his bed tired of crying. Crying did no good under such circumstances. She had showered in his bathroom. Her bare skin, sluiced against his clay soap bar, the same that touched his body. And she helped herself to one of his Prodigy tees that dropped from her shoulders to mid thigh. She lay on his bed feeling the waft of the tropical night air, imagining he was just out, at the night manager's post behind the front desk of the YMCA or tidying up the ice-cream parlor down at the mall after closing time. The working class man who swept her off her feet with his disarming nature and flatteringly appreciative looks. On the deck of the cruise ship, someone poured vodka into a halved pineapple and scattered olives over the long line of panini bread at the buffet. He took her hand and put an Ethiopian opal round her finger as the captain wed them. Istanbul to Gibraltar. They made love in the waters of the Mediterranean. Tenderly, with delicate strokes.
"And many will hate you,
on account of my name."
Miracles don't happen out of thin air, and money isn't the body's gasoline. We are quantum entities, being collectively, with every cell of our body and mind, capable of divine acts and power. We are half dragon, from a distant system pulled round by the tenacious gravity of the Sun. Their star: Nemesis and their world, the blue moon, Nibiru, three times the distance to Pluto, out beyond the Oort cloud. There is a God. The blond woman tucked her knees under her chin as if she were listening to Jesus himself. No, money is the body's engine oil. Liquidity is the body's gasoline, he carried on. Now she understood how they were all being damaged "through the air". She watched his YouTube channel on the ramshackle rig he had home-built while sipping the local Milo hot chocolate that wasn't hearty, less even sweet.
It seemed as if the highways and main streets were endless. He and the jeep driver, friends in the stream called traveling. The evening light was fading and the first raindrops started sputtering against the windscreen. Then a curtain of rain, and the windows were awash with splashes. Tail lights appearing like stained glass. They pushed through water waist-deep, seeping through the joints in the jeep as people climbed onto roofs and handed over possessions, getting even wetter in the process. Water can make you feel so hopeless, he said. The driver nodded. But why fight the very element that made life possible? We're drenched in our primordial amniotic fluid. We're just about to be born and God is not taking chances. They watched the human tragedy slip pass as the powerful Land Rover forded the flood zone. The driver looked at him and he let his gaze fall to his red and white Nike sneakers. There's something you're not telling me, he said rhetorically.
Indeed, everyone, no everything suffers, declared the pastor. She idled at the front of the room as the sermon started, blond waves framed by the holly and mistletoe wreath pinned to the cork board strewn with worship event posters. Her Venus reflection in the glazed door pane unpicked at the seams of her composure and she adjusted her horn rimmed glasses pointlessly. Despite all her displayed grace, she had one telling flaw: small hands which she instinctively tucked behind her back. That evening, as she carefully gathered the communion scraps, wrists rotated so nobody would see her hands, he caught them, that man of God, and spread her fingers out over his desk. She had always wanted a holy man, but first, her heart had to come down from out of her throat, and as it did, he kissed her. Something gave a squeal, escaping from the corner of her mouth, as their kiss exorcised the memory of him and all its baggage. But she pushed away. It was getting Cinderella late, and the jeep driver, waiting with her carriage in the basement parking.
He plain chickened out, said the jeep driver, over the roar of wind through the open windows. Talking about his "body". Yeah, about the whole "you aren't like what you are deep inside". The conditioning will wear off and yadda-yadda-yadda. She turned to stare out the window, into the neon streaked tropical Malaysian night. All the pedestrians seemed to be 2-dimensional, either on drugs or prostituting themselves. Or a statistic on the front page of theStar daily. Her hair flowed past her shoulders and she imagined her blond locks stroking the face of his decaying corpse. Herself ever young and rosy. Her hands suddenly felt cold and clammy. The pastor had invited her to a private gathering at his condo and she knew what that might lead to. She looked at the half-Apache driver but he was staring blankly ahead. Pure instinct guiding his hands and feet.
People are what they are, basically, animals tamed by religion. Something they barely understand, much less adhere to. But yes, I do pretend to be more than what I am. Who was he, your special friend?
She wanted to say they were in love but instead choked effeminately on the communion wine. Speak of the devil, said the pastor. He was mentally ill, she said. Of course, he replied. He had his demons, his family, people he knew back home. We gave him a hard time on more than one occasion. He wasn't going to heaven for sure.
Drugs, money, and pretty young things. All were present at the gathering at the pastor's condo but covered up by gestures of exquisite politeness and the aura of holiness. She remembered their kiss and wondered about the manhood of the savior, the graven image of him hanging from the cross over the smalltalk and the big issues. What lay tumescent and throbbing against his thigh, beneath his loincloth? The smell of perfect perfume and cologne, that woody library aroma from the open bibles being turned, and the mild, comforting scent of the buffet dinner sandwiches. A man brushed by, pressing a wad of paper into her hand. She went out on the balcony to read it but it said nothing. She sniffed the paper and angel dust flooded her senses, transfiguring her emotions. She was aware that somebody had taken off her heels and she fell back onto the bed with a purring sigh.
His mother made the best hot chocolate. Next time don't refuse the condensed milk, she scolded gently, stirring the thick sweet emulsion into the bitter Milo which she always took upstairs to finish. That one was for you, she said to herself as she browsed through his files. It wasn't out of the ordinary for people to share love, at least from her cultural standpoint. For then the soul of man goes to his eternal home and the spirit, back to God who gave it, he quoted. What can you do about the split between your heart and your mind after your body that held it together is dead and drained of blood?
Solomon was right. Life is meaningless. Everything is meaningless. The jeep driver gestured dismissively. He was a cancer survivor, living on charity from the church. The last trip south to Johor Bahru that they took, where they picked up two hostesses from a bar and nightclub. Like rabbits with the hearts of house sparrows, they nestled between the two men like tame parakeets, sharing their beers, blithely engrossed in their ever more challenging dice games. He wanted someone for the night before he died, and God gave her to him, snorted the driver. The soul is like chicken soup to the Father, we often say. He paused to stare at her. Tears were running down her cheeks. What of the spirit? They both knew it was "beauty" -like a fine polished pearl. He had treasure in heaven, she wiped her eyes on a Kleenex. Use, and use up, she could hear the voices of the raccoon-fanged onlookers.
Trying to piece together the puzzle of her friend's splintered life, to write about him for the Alumni magazine. The photographs from his mother and hers of the places he visited and the people he knew, lay spread out over the divan. He was shy, she began to type, sipping her hot chocolate, and of a sudden she could see, far away and faint:
It was bright and sunny in the park with the pond. He felt the sun warm his shaved head. The right side of his mouth empty of teeth. He wore a patch over one eye, walking carefully with a cane. Heaven smiled down on the young man. Yes, that one, on him.
~ยง~
"Our bible, a manual of cans and cannot dos, it seems to be but is not. Neither is it a hidden code, nor a concise history of the future."
Two angels and the spirit of a dead young boy looked down upon a world of latter days. The boy had been dead for three mornings now, his family, involved in a high-speed car accident. It was 1997, and the world was in the grips of Middle East war, at a time of a global economic crisis.
They called him Barneous, a form of Bar-enos, the Son of Man. Barneous, Barney, a very English-sounding name. It was the language of the day, the tongue of the feet of clay and iron. So said one of the angels who's name was simply Emmanuel. The other angel was called Iblees
When he was still incarnate, Emmanuel was a 40-year-old Asian man called John. He rose up to the ranks of messenger of God, through a life of hard knocks and a deep but somewhat narrow, yet piercing intelligence and a tenacity for gospel that all but earned him the title of shepherd or pastor. Then, suddenly, John became very, very ill and like his namesake, passed away in his sleep. He died one wintry November in Vancouver.
Iblees was an angel of light. An uncompromising defender of truth. To quite simply "be", he had to swallow all light that fell on his angel form. Some saw him as a black, oily man with bat wings, but really he was beautiful, like a smooth crystal cabochon, and the distorted reality surrounding him, in which he existed, gave him the appearance of crystal wings.
Barneous, at times, looked like Bobby Fisher, once America's top chess grandmaster, and world champion during the Cold War. Other times, he seemed effeminate, queer, speaking and feeling like a girl. He had thick lashes, behind which hid eyes with a stabbing glare. Yet in his private thoughts, he was a kind and mild-mannered young master. Even unto his death and the deaths of his whole aristocratic family. Can I go to my mother now? He asked Iblees, who silently stroked the boy's mop of soft, dark hair.
Then the light shifted, and Barney saw her. She was young again, but ministers were debating what if any memorial should be erected for their fallen lady of (s)words, middle aged, 45 when she died. On her skirt were embroidered African daisies. She lifted her hem, turning her back to the camera, and the light shined between her legs, onto the porcine forms that hid beneath. And buttered lobster dribbled sultrily from her perfect lips. Barney rubbed at his wrist where the watch she gave him used to be tied around but it wasn't there anymore. The only things he owned were a white robe and a blue sash to fasten it.
Terry was in his garden when he felt heaven's gaze rest upon him. Iblees said: Did this man spy on and adulterate with your mother? In heaven, there was nowhere to hide, as there was also, free-flowing mercy. The fiery sword sheathed at Emmanuel's waist drew a foot and the angel of light backed away, reduced. Did your mother love Uncle Terry? Asked Emmanuel, turning to the frightened boy. Yes, said Barney, as if he were all swollen. Terry stopped weeding his Egyptian walking onion patch and tipped his straw hat back, gazing into the horizon. Iblees, searched the confused gardener's heart and smiled with a lilt.
I'm so hungry, pleaded the angel of light, looking suddenly like a beggar. Barney used to give his nickels and dimes to people like that. His father, who was driving, the morning of the crash, was a deputy governor of the World Bank. He could hear fire crackle in front of him, and cod and red snapper were placed on a sizzling bed of Galilean coal. Steam rose from the feast, and he could smell flatbread, also olives, and see bunches of huge blood red grapes. Emmanuel commanded him eat and he tore into the food. His first meal in three days. The tall angel now looked more like a Dot-com bubble billionaire, and Iblees, like a Russian tank commander. The two of them framed in red on the cover of Time magazine.
Uncle Terry's son was praying. He didn't know if there really was a God, he simply felt a need for Him. 10 years older than Barneous, the teenager they accused of indecent acts -do not bear false witness, say the commandments, poured his pain silently into his clenched hands and crushed knees. It was a pain that belied a gentle, peaceful heart, and no scheming could take what was good in it from him. The time he swung off the just-halted school bus, legs pumping for dear life, skidding to a stop on his knees to the sound of uproarious laughter. The teenager pulled back the three hanging steel balls, and let them swing. The center ball remained still, but three balls on the other side bounced off it all at once, -like magic. What good is a mind so fundamentally fooled? One that, by nature considered the Earth flat, he thought. Barney's heart missed a beat, as visions in clouds showed Uncle Terry's son taking a chair at an ivy league college.
Fire, passion are consumers -ones that cling, their light is a measuring rod for transformation, for waxing prosperity and waning decay. And where light isn't a necessity, as with mushrooms, there love finds rest. So what is sin? Asked Iblees, appearing like one fearfully sneering. Barney fidgeted with his sash. It came loose and had somehow acquired a half twist, turning it into a Mobius loop. He played with the single-sided object where the under became the top as he ran it between his fingers. For not one thing that was made, was without Him, made. Is happiness forever? Prodded the angel of light, sulking. Suddenly, Barney's sash ripped as he had been unconsciously tugging it hard, and the angels nodded to one another.
His father used to say: money, -can't take it with you. The young boy stood between Emmanuel and Iblees with his white robe unfastened and his looping sash torn, frayed ends drooping off his upturned palms. Don't make your mess here, he was told, and suddenly, he was naked but for coils of TP that unspooled from his hands, turning into certificates for junk bonds. Look what the stock brought in. The group of businessmen laughed. One of them caught his eye as he raised a glass of brandy, and winked. Was he Iblees in disguise? But behind the pinstripe suit and waistcoat stood a lonely rich girl with self-harm scars on her arms.
Her name was Jennifer, the daughter of a Jew. Barney had known her since forever and her breasts now were just little bumps, under her blue and white Zion-striped blouse and bow. Emmanuel said, Don't be afraid, she loves you. Jennifer squeezed her shoulders together like a little bird with tufted plumage on its chest and he could see the gashes between her feathers, which were fine mink fur. He buried his kiss in her body as it recoiled in spasms of pain. Not so hard! She gasped but he was too young to consummate and Jenny was bathed in a red cast, her mouth skewed vulgarly as she asked, Quid pro quo, Bar-enos, -what is love?
If the road to hell were paved with good intentions, then come as you are to the wedding feast of the Lamb! proclaimed Emmanuel and Iblees, sipping sweet wine, arms locked like knife fighters. The Lamb, slain, yet not bleeding was cradled by Mother. Barney turned away in disgust. It's like that for women, he heard Jenny say, her voice betrayed fragile feminine hopes and strong undercurrents of longing. But he was stoking the boiler of covetousness and lust. He was a rampaging, muscular dragon with a noodle of a penis, and Terry the lamb, and his mother were locked in a lovers' embrace. I'll kill you! Roared the dragon, I'll kill... I, Barney whimpered, -killed your son. His anger all spent.
Martha, Terry's ex-wife, pulled the AD Resort up in front of Decathlon. Time together was extra special lately, in a world gone mad. Thanks for the ride, said Terry, bluntly. They looked separate ways for a moment, then Martha checked on the two boys, the younger, adopted from Taiwan, called Ah-Meng. Oil's $130 a barrel, declared Terry's son, reading the financials, as Ah-Meng ran ahead between tall shelves hung with an avalanche of sports gear. Martha held up a rust brown t-shirt to Meng's back and stretched out the sleeves. He'll love it, said Terry, trying on sunglasses, looking like an owl. And she fancied herself once again subjugated to his warm, easy ways, if not for their eating off the floor. They ambled through the mammoth sports store arms over shoulders. You don't have to do it, said Martha. Terry replied softly, I do.
In heaven, there is a wind that blows souls free. Barneous felt it billowing his unfastened robe, standing atop the precipice, lifted there by Emmanuel, with Iblees by his side, who looked like a shaggy mountain goat. There was thunder, flashes of lightning, as rolls of cloud rushed towards and all round the peak. It was dark as a blind man sees light, and the golden chariot of the Father descended from above, wheels turning like the rattle of a giant chain. Please, God, shouted the boy, save me. Please, he prayed, but there was no reply. He could hear soothing sounds, as air blew gently in and out of his lungs, punctuated by weakening electronic beeps. Someone touched his forehead. We're taking you off the machine now, she said.
Trembling, Terry felt for his right eye and his fingers sank into an empty gap. Iblees was the nurse who took his hand away, humming as she swabbed the wound. Stitches ran down his side where doctors harvested a kidney. It took him a full-body effort to swallow the trauma and submit heart, mind, and soul to the Lord. "Life is short", read the card Emmanuel left by his bed, "-and painful". You can have your family in now, said the nurse, putting the bed up. They've been to see Lady Lillian, -she's fine, she reassured. Terry smiled back thinly as his ex-wife and kids spilled in with rosy cheeks, balloons, ribbons, a flowering tulip bulb, a thermos of cocoa and a loaf of crusty banana bread. They prayed and gave thanks for the food, passing the cocoa around. In honour of you, Barneous, thought Terry amidst the commotion love tends to make, as he closed his eyes and sipped.
FreeLunch.my, C. K. Yap, yapchenkuang@outlook.com