"He poured the entire vial into the milky green liquid, which contained: Oriental rice whiskey, fabric dye, three ounces powdered opium and one-half ounce of gunpowder. The consecrated brew bubbled and hissed, a green smoke snaked from the bottle into his nostrils, he could see the prince and principality battling in his tent in a white fire.”
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Chapter 1 Part 1?
This is an original STEEM series novel. If you like odd dramas about odd things, strangely funny and sad, freaks, bearded ladies, emotional pain of invisible boys–I'll be writing a chapter in the series at least each week here on Steamit. Resteem, UpVote & Follow @ezravan
Chapter 1 - Part 2: The Russian & The Gnostic
A year after Piero became invisible, his younger brother, Pio Piccolo was conceived, though not by his brother's father, Elmo.). Pio's conception mysteriously occurred on Zola's yearly trip to France where she sold her pig fat soap and other beautifying products of pig fat at the busy spring market on Rue de la Republique. It was there she met for the first time the priest named Father Matthieu Fulke. His booth was next to hers. He sold a deep green tinted curative medicine which Zola took a great interest in. Father Matthieu claimed the tonic could cure impotence, headaches, loose bowels, joint pains and anything else.
Zola had suffered for many years with aching in her hips; only able to stand for an hour at a time before feeling she may collapse. She complained constantly about her hips to anyone that would listen and also to those that wouldn’t. She had a clever way of twisting any topic of conversation, even of God or the revolution, to the topic of her hips and how she suffered.
In the same way, with the same seemingly magical twist of the tongue, Father Matthieu Fulke, could steer conversations, even on the topic of aching hips or the revolution, to the topic of the God-man Christ and his sufferings, of which he had made his lifelong study.
The morning of the conception of Pio Father Matthieu made small talk about the oppressively hot season the year had brought to France. Though he knew English well, he started every conversation in French to gauge the ignorance of those he spoke to. Zola agreed that it was a rare heat, even for France. He complimented her on her French. She told him she was originally from the Spanish border town San Sebastian where she sold sweet wine from her Father’s vineyard and learned French as well as Spanish but had become most comfortable with Italian since she had lived there most of her life. She told him how she missed San Sebastian, especially the mild coastal weather.
“But, in my travels, the constant weather changes from Italy to France, Spain to Germany, cause such an aching in my hips.” She said this with an obvious eye on his green tonic which lined the shelves of his tent, then asked whether he would mind helping her set up her booth so that she could rest her hip joints for a while and prepare her soap.
Father Matthieu was always glad to help and while hoisting the paper mache pig to the support beam of her tent, he commented on how much Christ’s hips must have ached as he carried the cross to his death.
Zola was quiet for a moment, then agreed that they must have ached but said,
“Christ didn’t live long enough to have the profound aching of a woman who had birthed a child and traveled constantly carrying heavy bags of soap.”
Father Matthieu bent at the waist as if he had been hit in the stomach and nearly dropped the mache pig.
Zola continued: “He didn’t even work those last years. He just walked around eating fish drinking wine and talking, I could do that all day and not even perspire.”
Father Matthieu responded, “Yes but dear woman, though his life was brief, Christ felt all the sorrows and pains of man.”
“Yes, of man... but not of woman,” she said."
The Priest gave a kindly patronizing smile. “His sympathy is with us all. A man’s sin is twice that of a woman so it was appropriate to choose the male form to redeem all flesh.”
“That is odd, I would think it would be dangerous for God to be roaming the earth with a pénis, I mean, isn’t that why man has twice as much sin dear sir?”
He dropped the pig.
“Our Lord does not have a pénis!” The regularly dull purple spidering veins on his cheeks turned red, “I mean...”
She tightened the string around the soap with a snap. “Well does he or does he not?”
Zola continued her work without looking up. “Well, of course, he did... does. He is fully man and fully God, but he is without sin.”
“I am not so much worried about sin. We are talking about the God-Man, Christ, sitting now, on his heavenly throne, with a pénis.”
“Madam this is very inappropriate.”
Zola dropped another stack of soap in a large basket only slightly looking at the priest as she picked up another.
“Is it Father? I think God having a pénis is inappropriate.”
He wrung his finger inside his tight collar. “Could you stop using that word, please.”
“What word?” She snapped.
“Pénis!” He shouted.
“I see. You must be ashamed of it for some reason, now think of your reasons for shame. Do you think God can rule the earth with the same member between his hips? Do you think it would not cloud his judgment! That is why women suffer so!”
The Priest turned varying shades of red; his crooked milky teeth clenched. He kicked the paper pig and shoved his long trembling finger in her face.
“Careful with the Pig.” She said.
“Blasphemy!” he screamed, his voice now trembling, “I fear for both us.”
“Why both of us?”
“I fear for you, for his judgment will be swift against the blasphemer. I fear for me because my tent is a mere two feet away."
She laughed from the gut–holding her mouth and her stomach. The Priest tried to speak; nothing came from his mouth. Incensed, he turned on his heel and stomped the few feet back to his shop. He flung a drape from his table, knocking over a few bottles of green medicine and tacked the drape as a partition between the two tents.
The Priest’s demeanor was of such a disturbing manner, he sold nothing that day. He brooded and paced the small area with retribution on his mind. He peeked through the drape once every few hours to see a long line at her table seemingly unaffected by their controversy she had sparked. That she prospered, after such vile heretical statements, caused his chest to spot with small burgundy hives. He was aware from the history of the church that God sometimes used a mere man to bring down swift judgment on the wicked, so he prayed to Saint Joan of Arc, the Patroness of France and war, asking for the courage to be such a blessed instrument of the Lord. After much prayer, the Lord spoke. He took a family portion of the green medicine from the shelf and popped the cork with his thumb. He unlaced a small ornate gold vial, which hung from his neck; It contained holy water from the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, it was his most prized possession. The monk that sold it to him said the Pope himself had blessed it for the special season of lent.
He only could dream of what powers of judgment it possessed.
He poured the entire vial into the milky green liquid, which contained: Oriental rice whiskey, fabric dye, three ounces powdered opium and one-half ounce of gunpowder. The consecrated brew bubbled and hissed, a green smoke snaked from the bottle into his nostrils, he could see the prince and principality battling in his tent in a white fire.
When the sun was on the decline and the busy shoppers were sparse, he approached Zola with the green bottle behind his back and a contrite smile on his lips.
“I’ve come to make amends as Christian’s do,” he said.
She gave suspicious squint of the eye. “And how would that be, a free sin?”
He laughed. “Oh, nothing like that Madam.”
He placed the bottle on the table stacked with soaps and proclaimed, “This is a medicine of great healing powers, from the orient, where it is considered sacred. It cures most ills, including aching hips I might add.”
She took the bottle and weighed it in her hand. “The orient eh? How much does it cost?”
“Well being so quick to judge, and extremely impertinent in my zealousness for the Lord, I would like to offer this bottle free of charge as a humble amend—usually ten franc.”
“Ten franc?” She said, sniffing at the cork, “Must have the blood of Christ in it.”
A large vein suddenly popped into existence on Father Matthieu’s forehead. “Yes, I... em. I guess you could say that... ” he said, “It is the family portion, and you with all you have told me concerning your hips, will need such an ample amount.”
“How kind of you,” she said and started tugging on the cork.
“Oh no, no Madam. You mustn't open it here.”
He took the bottle from her hands. She looked at his face; he had a smile that revealed the missing molars behind his crooked lips. He showed her where he had written the prescription on the back label:
Drink two pints of ale to coat and protect her stomach. Eat nothing prior to administering. Consume half the contents of the bottle in one sitting. If desiring hastened relief - consume the entirety of the bottle.
She looked back up at the smiling priest. “That will be hard to do, but it can’t be harder than dealing with these aching hips. Thank you.”
He bowed slightly at the waist. “Your most welcome. I apologize again.”
She reached out to shake his hand. “I must say my hatred of Christians has lessened by one today.”
On the way back to her room that evening, she stopped at a small sidewalk cafe. She ordered two pints of ale. They went down smooth. She became even more optimistic about the medicine’s prospects. She took the green bottle from her bag and asked the attendee for a small clean glass; she didn’t want to contaminate the medicine with the muddy hops.
As soon as she opened the bottle a stream of smoke danced in a thin curling line upwards. She spent that early evening in the humid air drinking the foul tasting liquid and finished the bottle a little after 8pm. Her head swam in murky visions of spotted light. The bottle fell from her hand with a deep growling burp then smashed on the cobblestone and the judgment of God came swiftly upon her.
The next morning, Zola was in shock when she awoke in a strange bed with two naked men on either side of her. She first thought they were angels and asked whether Christ still had a penis in Heaven. One said he was from Russia and had never been taught about Christ, so he didn’t know. The other was a Gnostic and didn’t believe in the humanity of Christ, he suspected, he did not have a penis in heaven.
When Zola arrived at her tent later that morning she noticed the confused expression on Father Matthieu’s face. She took a basket of soap to him with a kindly smile and offered it as a gift. She told him that her hips had never felt better and said she would gladly pay for another bottle of the miraculous medicine.
Father Mattieu removed his collar that night and never spoke of God again.
To be continued ...
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