Facing Fate with Jesus' Son
Jack, the Son of the Son of God, was off to see the Weaver.
Jack and I were exiting our airship, the Eagle's Wing. I had never seen the ship from the outside before; I had resurrected directly onto it after dying in purgatory. The ship had a cloaking device, so when I looked up the stairs behind me, all I saw was a hatch and thin air. The sight was uncanny, and it didn't help that I was incredibly stoned.
"Why did we land?" I asked. I'd been expecting Jack to contact this "Weaver of Fate" from the sky via the Network. Landing was risky because St. Peter was hunting Jack down.
"The Weaver isn't on the Network," Jack said warily. "Fate makes you go to her."
If I thought seeing the cloaked ship from the outside was creepy, that was nothing compared to what I saw when I turned to look ahead.
We were surrounded by a dark, impenetrable forest. The only direction we could possibly walk was into the entrance of a tunnel.
The tunnel was made of spider webs.
"Oh FUCK no!" I cried.
"You can stay on the ship if you want," Jack said. "I wouldn't blame you."
There's no way I would have. Without Jack I'd be fucked anyway. I had no idea how to fly the Eagle's Wing. I was in the middle of nowhere on the legendary continent of Atlantis, and I hadn't seen anyone I knew from the globe in over two decades. I was sticking to him like gum on an arcade floor.
"Nah, dude, I'm in this with you," I said, shuddering. "But you go first!"
We both had flashlights, but as we entered the tunnel, I kept mine pointed entirely on Jack's back. I had absolutely no desire to see what was in any other direction. It was just after daybreak, but the only light that penetrated the web was a dim sickly green. It was just enough to show the shadows of scurrying things.
I thought back to my time as a ditchdigger in purgatory. Keep moving forward, one shovelful at a time. That got me through.
We entered a large chamber. We were still surrounded on all sides by web, but the risk of imminently brushing against one had lessened. In front of us, the web sloped up into pitch darkness that our flashlights could not penetrate.
"Please tell me we don't have to climb that," I groaned.
"Whoooooooooo daaaaaaresssssss..."
Oh shit. A spine-chilling hiss echoed out from the darkness ahead.
"Whooooooooooooooooooooo daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaressssssssssssssss..."
Eight ruby-red eyes in two rows gleamed from the shadows.
"Ohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuck..." I whimpered.
"WHO DARES DISTURB THE GREAT AND POWERFUL WEAVER OF FATE???"
A giant spider charged down toward us, furry appendages flailing.
"Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck," I cried, ducking behind my arms.
"Oh, dude, Jack!" the spider voice said. "Hold up..."
The eyes of the spider stopped glowing, and it collapsed to the ground, curling up. There was the loud clunk of a large switch being thrown, and the chamber was flooded with bright light from above. Lights, actually—large industrial pressurized gas lamps. The light easily cut through the web, which appeared to be held up by a framework of pvc piping. Behind the web were green stage lights mounted on poles.
I looked at Jack. He hadn't nearly pissed his pants the way I almost did, but he was clearly as confused as I was.
Just behind the web, a door opened and an old Native American man walked out. I mean, he probably wasn't Native American. We were a million miles away and on the other side of a major spacetime distortion from America. But the man had a tan, leathery face and long salt-and-pepper grey hair. He was wearing a fringed vest over a zigzag-patterned shirt, jeans, and even a silver feather earring dangling from his left ear.
Dude looked like an Indian.
"Professor Coyote?" Jack asked hesitantly.
"Yeah, long time no see, kemosabe!" the man laughed, struggling to push aside a curtain of fake cotton webbing before opening his arms in greeting.
"Dude, Professor Coyote!" Jack said, running up to shake his hand. "What the heck are you doing here?"
"Side hustle," Coyote laughed. "Tenure pays for shit these days. What, you didn't think there was actually a giant spider weaving everyone's fate, did you?"
"Uh, yeah, no, of course not," Jack said, turning to me. "John, this is my favorite professor from college, Professor Coyote!"
"Please, you guys just call me Coyote," he said. "You're not my students, I'm just a dude."
"It's nice to meet you, Coyote," I said, shaking hands.
"Oh, I've been waiting a long time to meet you," Coyote smiled, "St. John!"
"I'm not one of the saints," I demurred. "I'm just a regular John."
"On the contrary," Coyote said, looking at Jack and then back at me, "are you not the same John who died trying to defend Jack from the misguided machinations of St. Peter?"
"That's me, I guess," I admitted.
"That's pretty much automatic sainthood, then," Coyote laughed. "Happy to break the news to you, St. John!"
Holy fuck, I was a saint!
"I figured you guys would be showing up eventually," Coyote said. "I've got something for each of you. C'mon, follow me."
I looked to Jack, who just shrugged and let Coyote take the lead. We followed him through the door and down a cinderblock hallway.
"Dude, I didn't know you went to college," I said to Jack.
"Yeah, back in the sixteenth century," Jack said. "I got my undergraduate degree in Humoralism. So, y'know, not exactly using it."
"Still one of my favorite students!" Coyote said. "Not that it's a very high bar. But you wanted to learn, and you paid attention! Can't really say that about any of my students anymore."
"What do you teach?" I asked.
"Humanity," Coyote grinned, holding open the door to the outside.
"My dudes, welcome to Riverdell University!"
My eyes adjusted to the daylight and I took in the scene. We were in a wide canyon covered in greenery. A waterfall towered in the distance. Along the canyon walls and on either side of the quad in front of us were domed academic buildings in a classical style. Around us walked creatures as varied as any I'd seen while partying in Atlantis, though in somewhat more responsible form. There were cheerleaders with snowy feathered wings, demons in frat jackets, a robot lugging around a cello case, and something that looked like a six-foot-tall bipedal badger in a basketball uniform. A couple centaurs were passing a football back and forth. In the center of the quad was a large fountain where mermaids traded notes and studied their textbooks.
"Watch out for the protesters!" Coyote laughed.
We passed a marching line of angry co-eds carrying signs demanding TRANSUBSTANTIATION RITES FOR WOMEN and a crowd of colorful characters holding a banner that said QUEERS FOR PHILISTINES. They yelled at us for being terrible people.
It really was college!
Coyote lead us into an alley between two buildings, through a heavy door behind a dumpster, down a concrete flight of stairs and along a poorly lit hallway to his office.
"Sorry, not a lot of funding for Humanity these days," he said, entering his office and turning on the light. "Now, where did I put that card..."
The office appeared to be constructed entirely of stacks of papers and books, which Coyote immediately began digging through. I glanced at some of the titles: Art & Architecture of Ancient Narnia, Ethical Paganism, The Protestant Manifesto, A Tale of Two Deities, Men Are from Tezcatlipoca, Women Are from Xochiquetzal, How to Be an Antichrist and JavaScript for Dummies.
"Here we go!" Coyote exclaimed, holding up a laminated pocket-sized card and handing it to me. "First, for you, St. John, your official prayer card!"
On the front of the card was an honestly flattering painting of me in the style of a Catholic icon. I had on robes right out of an illustrated Bible, a halo around my head, and that look on my face that lots of icons have, somewhere between looking up to heaven for guidance and rolling my eyes. In my right hand was a bong, in my left hand was a game controller, and at my feet was a handgun.
"St. John the Unarmed," I read.
"Y'know, to distinguish you from all the others," Coyote explained.
"Great," I said flatly. Flipping the card over, I continued to read out loud. "'Holy St. John, you cast down your weapon in the face of your enemies, only your faith in the LORD as your shield...' Uh, that's an interesting take on what happened, I guess."
"Hagiography usually is," Coyote grinned.
"Um, thanks," I said, tucking the card into my back pocket. Coyote turned to Jack.
"And now, for you!" Coyote said. "You want to know what's up with the Lake of Fire, yeah?"
"Right," Jack said. "Does it even exist? What does it have to do with me? Why does Peter think casting me into it will end death? Is there any truth to any of it?"
"Well," Coyote said, getting serious, "for that, my friend, you will need to go on a vision quest. It won't be easy. It will test your sanity and your stamina. You must spend forty days in the desert, naked, consuming only water and peyote. You will be visited by your spirit guide, who will force you to confront the darkest side of your soul. There is a chance the experience will leave you catatonic, trapped in your body, unable to move yet unable to die and be resurrected..."
Seeing the terror in Jack's eyes, Coyote burst into laughter.
"I'm just fucking with you dude!" Coyote cackled. "Holy shit, man, you should see the look on your face! No, no...no vision quest needed. That's all bullshit. Though I do have some peyote, if you're interested..."
"No thank you," Jack scowled, "I'm already very high. Look, Professor, I'm sorry, but this isn't really a laughing matter for me."
"Yeah, no, you're right," Coyote said, catching his breath and wiping a tear from his eye. "Sorry, couldn't help myself. Ahem, ok. Regarding Peter, I have no idea what that man is thinking. He mixes and matches mythology like it's an ideological buffet. Remember the First Law of Humanity?"
"Humans can justify anything," Jack replied.
"Right," said Coyote. "So, maybe Peter's onto something, maybe he's a few pelts shy of a tipi. Only your Grandfather knows for sure."
"Ok," Jack said. "What about the Lake of Fire?"
"Now that is no joke," Coyote said. "Yes, it exists. Yes, those cast into it can never be resurrected. The Lake of Fire surrounds us, at the edge of the world."
"I thought the world extended infinitely in every direction," Jack said skeptically.
"Ah, that's where you're wrong," Coyote said. "You only think the world is infinite because of a distortion field. But there's a seam. We're actually not that far from the edge at the moment. Now, where did I put that map..."
Coyote appeared to really be serious this time. He unfolded a large map and began giving directions to Jack. It sounded complicated. As they bent over the map discussing places I had never heard of, I realized I should have taken a leak before exiting the ship. The giant spider certainly hadn't helped.
"Sorry to interrupt," I said. "Is there a restroom around here?"
"Yeah, down the hall and to your right," Coyote said, pointing.
"Back in a few," I said.
As I headed down the hall, it struck me that I'd never actually used a proper restroom in Atlantis before. The party at Pan's Grove was a shit-in-the-woods sort of affair. We only had outhouses in Lumeria. My bathroom on the Eagle's Wing was fairly standard issue for a modern glober, though I suspected it was built specifically for me. I really didn't know what to expect. My memories of the basement bathrooms at the end of dark hallways from when I was in college left me with very mixed feelings, to put it mildly. I hoped it was at least going to be reasonably clean. I was relieved to find two doors clearly marked with male and female symbols. I entered the men's room.
It was clean at least. It appeared to be made of sacracement, and every surface shined white. It had the familiar setup of a long mirror with several sinks. But then I saw a few butt-sized holes in the floor outlined in blue stripes, and a single long trough against the wall—not a stall or divider in sight. The place was clearly not designed with the same-sex-attracted in mind. At least, not the ones just looking to urinate.
Mixed feelings, indeed.
I went to the near end of the trough, grateful I just had to piss. The building seemed pretty deserted, and I figured I could make it fast. But restroom setups lacking privacy always made me pee-shy, even when I was the only one around.
I heard the bathroom door open and the clacking of footsteps headed my way. I kept my eyes staring straight ahead at the wall in front of me. Whoever this was, he came to a stop at the trough, closer to me than to the middle, let alone the far end.
I didn't hear him peeing.
I certainly wasn't peeing.
Fuck.
I knew there were places all over the world where any sort of homosexual activity could get you thrown off a roof. This didn't seem like that sort of place, but I couldn't say for sure. And even the most accepting places generally didn't look kindly on such activity in public restrooms. Hookup apps had made that sort of thing obsolete anyway. And hadn't I, y'know, grown out of this stuff?
I risked a glance.
Some guys will stand there shaking a little too long, but this wasn't shaking. This was slow, methodical flopping. Flop. Flop. Flop.
I looked up to see who was attached to such temptation. He wore a black suit. One of the sleeves was baby blue with a cloud print on it. He was wearing sunglasses indoors. He looked at me and smiled.
I felt an arm reach from behind me and press a cloth over my nose and mouth.
I passed out.
Next: The Passion of Jesus' Son
Doing Drugs with Jesus’ Son is always free.