Negotiations With God

by R W Sowrider

  “I’m sorry?” Rowen replied as Meng Po cackled mysteriously.

  “I said drink and be gone!” Delemor shouted.

  “What do you mean?” Rowen whispered to Meng Po as she helped him to his feet.

  But before he could receive an answer, he found himself stumbling around as his field of vision warped violently and his memory went haywire.

  Then everything went black altogether.

  Cloyes, France

  Early 13 th Century AD

  News of Rowen’s miracle spread like wildfire. Upon hearing the news, people of all ages and social status were drawn to his home like moths to a flame.

  “I didn’t even know he was sick,” Rowen said to his parents when asked about the incident. “I just thought he was really ugly.”

  The truth of it is that Dionysus—God of Mischief, the Drink, and One-Night Stands—had been responsible for everything. The opportunity for mischief arose when Rowen had been accosted by an unruly homeless man.

  “And I’ll be having one of these sheeps for dinner,” the unruly homeless man had said.

  “Over my dead body,” the 11-year-old Rowen bravely countered before striking the man on the crown of his head with his wooden staff.

  At the precise moment of impact, Dionysus struck too, knocking the leprosy clean out of him.

  “What’s leprosy?” Rowen asked his parents as they sought the truth of the incident.

  “Hansen’s Disease,” his mother replied as his father paced back and forth, nervously drinking his nightly ale.

  While Rowen felt that for the first time in his short life he had acted truly nobly in the face of grave danger, his father was clearly irritated by the gathering crowd outside. Rowen was forced to defend himself lest he be unjustly punished. “All I know,” he pleaded, “is that a man with a gross, retarded, scaly face and nubby hands was trying to steal one of our sheep.”

  “And so you cracked his head with your staff?!” his father replied, incredulously. “Darlin’,” his father said, turning to Rowen’s mother. “I find it hard to believe that the boy has enough strength to even lift that staff over his head, let alone hit someone so hard that he knocked the leprosy out of him.”

  “Oh no,” Rowen’s mother replied, incredulous in her own right that Rowen’s father would say or even think such a thing. “No, no. He’s a very macho boy! And so handsome with his golden locks and bright blue eyes.”

  “Well, being girl handsome ain’t never helped him plough the field.”

  “He’s a shepherd boy; and he does a great job at it.”

  “All I did was hit him with my staff to protect our sheep,” young Rowen implored. “That’s it. Nothing else.”

  “Well, you try telling that to the mob!” his father roared back.

  Desperately wanting to be a good son, Rowen complied. But try as you might, reasoning with a mob is like reasoning with a drunk toddler. Completely useless.

  “I merely struck the sinner with my staff,” Rowen called out from his doorstep.

  “And with that blow, I was cured!” the unruly homeless man called out. “I used to have scales like a lizard on my face,” he continued. “And my limbs, when whacked with force, would fall straight out of their sockets until this boy … nay, this Angel of God, cured me.”

  “Hoorah for the Angel of God!” the people cried.

  Until now, Rowen had desperately wanted the mob to leave so that his father would calm down and they could return to normalcy. But something stirred deep within him when the people shouted, “Angel of God.”

  He had spent his first 11 years as an average shepherd boy. But those three words changed everything.

  Sure, he had spent countless hours hoping that he had been touched, praying that he was no mere sheepherder, and fantasizing that he was destined for greatness. But he had always known that those were just pipe dreams.

  Until now.

  There were people calling for him. There was a movement.

  “Look at his face,” a hysterical woman called out. “On the face of the angel is the mark of the Messiah. An extraordinary beauty mark above his upper lip!”

  And now there was proof.

  He had been chosen, and he would not let his people down.

  Even more so than the birthmark, what Rowen really had going for him was that he was born to a pair of poor, pious serfs. They hadn’t the means to give him an education, so the only one he had received was from the front pew of the church on Sundays.

  As he tended to his sheep (i.e., stared off into space as they grazed, baaa’ed, and pooped), he had a habit of replaying each week’s sermon over and over in his head.

  And over and over and over and over.

  He knew the story of Christ better than the priest.

  He knew the hymns better than the choir.

  And he knew the history of past Crusades better than any of the religious warriors who had actually participated in them.

  He knew that some of the Crusaders had sought to right the wrongs committed by the swarthy heathen who had stolen the Holy Land that is Jerusalem.

  And he knew that others had simply sought a piece of land and a pocket full of gold.

  The former had failed while the latter were failures.

  For as long as he could remember, Rowen had dreamed of taking the Holy Land back from the infidels.

  And now, with the people at his doorstep calling him the Angel of God, he had a feeling that his chance had come. And much like his hero, King Richard, Rowen would happily give up everything to lead the most noble and honorable quest mankind had ever known.

  There was just one problem. All he had done was hit some creep in the head with his staff. The people wanted miracles.

  “My son is blind,” a middle-aged woman called from the crowd. “Please, could you cure him? Please?!”

  “My father is paralyzed,” a young girl cried in a sweet yet desperate voice. “He cannot walk. We need a miracle. Please, could you help? Please?!”

  “I have like ten people coming over tonight,” a young gentleman shouted. “And there’s nothing to drink but a cask of water. Please, could you hook a brother up and turn it into wine?! Please?!!!”

  Rowen was overwhelmed with pleas for help. Could he hit the blind son with his staff and cure him? Whack the paralyzed father in the legs and make him walk? Reggie Jackson a cask of water to turn it into wine?

  Perhaps he could. But more likely, he would just wind up battering a bunch of cripples who had it bad enough as it was. He needed time.

  “Good people,” he shouted. “I understand your pain. Today has been an incredible day filled with the mercy of our Lord. Tomorrow, too, we will bask in the glow of His glory as He continues to bless us. But the day is gone and we must all make our way home to break bread with our family and give thanks to God for his love and protection. Tomorrow, we will meet again. Good night, sweet people.”

  With this short yet heartfelt speech, the people were satisfied and peaceably began to make their way home.

  All except for the young gentleman in urgent need of wine who let his peace be known. “You suck! … Fraud!”

  When Rowen returned inside, his kindly mother burst into tears as she threw her arms around him.

  “You done good, son,” his father said, patting him on the back.

  Rowen’s heart overflowed with joy as this was perhaps the first time he had ever received a bit of praise from his old man.

  “But correct me if I’m wrong,” his father continued. “Did I hear someone say that the proof you’re a Messenger of God is that booger mole you’ve got under your nose?!”

  ***

  The following day, Rowen decided that he would cure that poor woman’s blind son.

  He had spent most of the night tossing and turning, wracking his brain as to how he might be able to perform another miracle, and what he came up with was … nothing.

  Which he found to be the perfect solution. He had not cured the leper. God had cure
d the leper.

  Likewise, he would not cure the blind boy, God would.

  All he had to do was believe. Which, after all, is what he was best at. Believing in God and in His miracles.

  So he would do his best to cure the blind boy and if God had it in His plans for him to do so, the boy would be cured.

  Further, he would be taking the second step on his quest to reclaim the Holy Land from the heathen scum currently in possession of it.

  When Rowen arrived at the home of the middle-aged woman, she threw herself at his feet. “Oh, thank God you’ve come!”

  “Please, stand up,” Rowen replied, helping her to her feet.

  “He’s inside,” she said, pushing him through the entrance. “Please, please, please cure him of his blindness.”

  Upon entering the living area, Rowen immediately spotted a young man hunched over a table. Even from behind, it was clear to Rowen that this poor fellow was depressed. That his happiness had been sapped by his disability .

  Rowen took a wide stance behind the young man, raised his hands in the air, and shook his whole body as he looked to the heavens.

  Then, without warning, he slapped the young man on the side of his head. “Begone, cursed demon!”

  “Owwwwww. What the fuck, man?!” the young fellow cried as he turned around wincing in pain.

  Rowen’s face lit up when the young man locked eyes with him. “You can see!” Rowen cried.

  “Of course I can see, you twerp. My little brother’s the blind one, not me.”

  Rowen’s euphoria quickly deflated into embarrassment as his face turned beet red.

  “He’s over there by the hearth,” the young fellow continued, pointing to the other side of the room.

  As Rowen slinked around the table, another wave of shame washed over him. “I see that you can read, too,” he said, noticing the open book on the table in front of the young man. “Good for you, sir.”

  On the other side of the table, Rowen finally spotted the boy. He was twirling his fingers timidly on the floor by the hearth.

  “Hello,” Rowen said, gently.

  The boy lifted his head and Rowen saw clouds in his eyes. This time, he was hit with a wave of compassion. He wanted nothing more in the world than help this poor boy see.

  “I’m going to try to help you,” Rowen continued as he placed his hand on the boy’s head.

  At the precise moment he did so, Dionysus struck, knocking the boy’s blindness right out of him.

  Rowen felt a jolt of lighting in his hand and the boy screamed as he collapsed to the floor, covering his face.

  “What did you do to my baby?!” the middle-aged woman shrieked. “Are you okay?” she cried frantically, rocking her son in her arms. “Are you okay? ”

  But the boy was quiet.

  He slowly lifted his hands from his face and looked up at his mother and at Rowen, his round green eyes sparkling.

  “I can see,” he gasped.

  “It’s a miracle!” the middle-aged woman yelled. “A miracle!”

  ***

  The next day, a little weary from being paraded around town and again touted as the Angel of God, Rowen decided that he would cure the paralyzed father of the girl with the sweet yet desperate voice.

  If God would grant this miracle, Rowen’s destiny would be sealed, because it would be his third miracle in three days. When a pair of three’s line up like that, no further proof is required. You’re clearly dealing with a prophet.

  The stage would be set for Rowen to lead a Crusade to reclaim the Holy Land from the vile swine currently inhabiting it.

  Much to his surprise, he found the home of the paralyzed father to in fact be a castle, and the paralyzed father to be Lord Chevalier.

  Equally surprising, upon meeting Lord Chevalier’s daughter, Sera, he felt as if half of his heart had been torn from his chest while the other half exploded.

  Sera, just one year older than Rowen, was an absolute vision. She had delicate skin, long shiny brown hair pulled back in a lustrous braid, and glowing green eyes. Further, she was wrapped in a flowing, honey-colored dress with intricate lily embroidering along the sleeves.

  While Rowen didn’t realize it at the time, she too experienced the feeling of having half of her heart ripped out of her chest while the other half burst.

  The reason for this was that at the precise moment their eyes locked, Aphrodite—Goddess of Beauty, Horndog Love, and Shitty Dramas—had ripped half of their respective hearts out and fused them with their counterparts.

  Not surprisingly, the resulting feeling is that of a hydrogen bomb going off in one’s chest.

  Their silence was broken when Sera recalled the task at hand. “Please,” she entreated softly. “Please cure my father.”

  “If it is God’s will,” Rowen replied, his heart aching at the sight of her sorrowful yet sparkling emerald eyes. “Then it will be my honor.”

  Rowen followed as she led him through the castle’s entrance hall, saloon, and library, and into the smoking room. Seated on an ornately carved oak throne, gazing despondently out of the window, was a man who appeared to be Sera’s father.

  Rowen approached. “Are you Lord Chevalier?”

  “I am, young man.”

  “You are unable to walk, right?”

  “That is correct, my dear boy. My legs are lame.”

  Rowen turned to Sera. “This is definitely the guy, right?”

  “Yes.”

  Rowen turned back to her father. “Get up and walk,” he said confidently.

  Lord Chevalier eyed his daughter.

  “This is the boy who has performed two miracles already,” she said with a nod.

  “Get up and walk,” Rowen repeated, lifting his arms in the air.

  Lord Chevalier’s eyes widened with hope—the one sin remaining in Pandora’s box—as he leaned forward on the throne, pushed off the armrests, and did his damnedest to support his weight with his legs.

  “Father!” Sera cried as he fell to the floor with a great thud.

  “What is the meaning of this!” Lord Chevalier barked as he shot eye daggers at Rowen, who looked as if he’d peed his pants. “Do you mock me, boy?!”

  Sera turned to Rowen, her eyes more desperate than ever. “Rowen, we need a miracle. Please!”

  “I’m sorry,” Rowen said. “I think the sun was in my eyes … or something. Or maybe I need to be touching the afflicted for the miracle to occur.”

  Feeling fainthearted, Rowen timidly approached Lord Chevalier and leaned over his crumpled body. Trying to regain his confidence, he locked eyes with Sera and they nodded determinedly. “Be gone, demon!” he called out as he smacked Lord Chevalier on the rump.

  “I’m not constipated, son, I’m paralyzed.”

  “Father!”

  “Sera,” Lord Chevalier said, sternly. “If you and your little friend here are done terrorizing your poor crippled father, then please help me back into my chair so I can get back to watching clouds float by.”

  “Oh, father,” Sera exclaimed. “I’m so sorry. This was not meant to be a prank. As I said, he’s already performed two miracles. He cured a leper and a blind boy. They call him the Angel of God. I just … I just don’t understand.”

  “Just help me up already.”

  As Sera grabbed one of her father’s arms, Rowen did likewise. “Let me help,” he said.

  At the precise moment that Rowen grabbed Lord Chevalier’s arm, Dionysus, who had been laughing his ass off since Rowen had had the balls to command a paralyzed man to “get up and walk,” flew into action and knocked the paralysis clean out of the lord’s body.

  Sera felt the blow too and staggered backward in shock.

  Slowly, Lord Chevalier put both hands on the floor shoulder length apart, drew his knees to his chest, pressed both feet to the ground, and stood.

  “It’s a miracle!” Sera cried.

  Lord Chevalier was standing. “Putain de merde !” he shouted. “A miracle!”

&nb
sp; In an instant, the three of them were rejoicing in the middle of the room, tears streaming down their faces as they held hands and danced around in a circle.

  ***

  Before long, all of France had heard of the Angel of God and they flocked to him for a multitude of reasons.

  Some, in hope of a miracle. Others, wishing to hear him speak. And still others, just to catch a glimpse of the golden-haired boy bearing the mark of the Messiah.

  Most curiously though, were the many children who came to inform Rowen of the miracles that they had performed.

  “When I touched a dead bird, it returned to life and flew away before my very eyes,” a starry-eyed young scamp explained to Rowen and Sera as they were enjoying a picnic after Rowen had given a sermon on the importance of hope and faith.

  Rowen and Sera had taken to spending time together every day since the Lord Chevalier miracle, and her family often prepared lavish feasts for the two to enjoy.

  It was clear to both of them that they were in love, but neither broached the subject. They were young, pure, and devoted to God, and they intended to stay that way for as long as possible.

  Further, Rowen instinctively understood that innocence and purity would play pivotal roles in the coming Crusade.

  “You are a special boy,” Rowen replied to the starry-eyed scamp. “You are most welcome into my band of disciples.”

  “Do you really think he performed such a miracle?” Sera whispered to Rowen as the scamp merrily took his leave.

  “Surely, the Lord’s wonders know no bounds,” Rowen replied. “But in this case, it is more likely that the bird was just sleeping or something.”

  “I thought so, too,” Sera said, smiling first at Rowen, then at a very serious-looking young boy approaching them.

  Rowen greeted the boy with a wave. “Hello, friend.”

  “Hello, Messiah,” the boy replied, furrowing his brow, puffing out his chest, and plunging into his tale. “My friend Didier and I were at play and my friend Didier rolled some dice and covered them up before I could see what they were. Didier then says to me, ‘Guess what I rolled?’ And I said, ‘Hmmmm,’ while I was thinking. Then Didier said, ‘You’ll never get it.’ So I said, ‘11.’ Didier couldn’t believe it and he said, ‘You’re right!’ Then I said, ‘It’s a miracle!’” A wide smile broke over his face as awaited Rowen’s acknowledgement. “Isn’t that an amazing miracle?!”