by Allen Lyne
Bug's pink eyes glowed at him from where she sat near the door. “Because Netherland-Dwarf bunnies are the highest form of life."
Thumper looked up from her sniffing. “Our mother told us that. We're purebreds—not like you."
"Well, yes. I suppose you are."
"No suppose about it.” Bugs was slightly overdoing her haughty look.
"We were stolen,” said Thumper dramatically.
"Stolen?"
"Our mother told us that the man who sold us to you stole us. Our father and mother used to go in shows and win prizes and everything. If we'd stayed where we were born, we'd have gone in shows as well.” Thumper had finished her sniffing and now sat near Jonathan's feet.
"The man who stole us came over the fence one night. He opened up the cage we were in and stole our mother, our father and us. We were only two weeks old.” Bugs was staring intently, searching for Jonathan's reaction.
Thumper looked up at Jonathan. “We haven't got our papers. That's why we can't prove who we are or go in shows or anything."
"I'm sorry. I didn't know any of this. He seemed like such a nice man."
"He was a dill. Our mother and father were getting the wrong food. They're probably dead by now.” Bugs’ indignation was evident in her voice.
Thumper was slightly conciliatory. “That's one of the reasons we like you. You give us our proper dinner."
"We like you now, but we didn't always like you. We were only six weeks old when you took us away. We loved our mother.” Bugs was still indignant.
"We nearly died of grief.” Thumper had a catch in her voice.
Jonathan was wracked by guilt. “I'm sorry. Oh God, I'm so sorry."
"It's alright now. Maybe it could have been worse. You look after us real good.” Thumper's soft eyes were full of forgiveness.
Bugs was somewhat less kind to Jonathan's feelings. “God told us that we would inherit the Earth if people didn't improve."
"When did you talk to God?"
* * * *
It had happened on a Tuesday morning. The air was fresh and invigorating. The bunnies had been mooching around the backyard eating tidbits of grass and weeds. They had stopped feasting to play one of their survival games. This was the one where they tore around the backyard at full pace and then came to a dead stop. They then leapt high in the air from a standing start and turned 180 or 360 degrees before racing off again. Both bunnies had just leapt into the air in joy and clicked their heels on the side—they did this when they felt particularly happy—when all of a sudden a bright light appeared in a corner by the fence.
Bugs and Thumper stopped dead. Anything new was treated with deep suspicion until it proved benign. They looked at the light with their noses twitching. No smell came from that direction. That was a good sign, but didn't make it safe. Both were about to hop away, when a face appeared in the light. The face had an amused expression on it. A hand appeared and a finger beckoned to them to come.
They stood still for a moment, looking at the light, the face and the finger. Rabbits are curious—but cautious—beings. Then they heard strains of the most beautiful music they had ever heard. Both rabbits were classical music buffs. Whenever Jonathan played one of his “Great Arias” recordings on the CD player, they would both sit—listening in rapture—eyes closed and paws folded beneath them.
They cautiously moved towards the man, the light and the music.
He smiled more broadly and spoke in that irritating voice people sometime use to children and pets. It was high pitched and sounded as though he thought they were idiots. “Come on.... That's good girls. I've got some nice din-dins for both of you.... Come on."
Bugs and Thumper went because they wanted to find out where such beautiful music came from—and because of the mention of ‘nice dinner'—not because of the insipid voice the man put on. They moved into the arc of the light, and suddenly they were somewhere else.
The backyard disappeared. The grass, trees and shrubs they knew so well were gone. So was the house and everything familiar to them. The bunnies had only been outside their house twice since they were six weeks old, and that was to go to the vet.
The bunnies were in a strangely shaped room with no glass in the windows. The ceiling was thatched with what looked like straw or hay. Even in her fear and uncertainty, Thumper wondered if she could eat it.
The man, who was standing in the centre of the room, was trying to be kind. “It's alright, my little friends, you don't have to worry."
For the first time the rabbits could understand what someone said to them. Apart from picking phrases like ‘dinner', ‘good girls', ‘outside’ and their names—phrases they heard over and over, they had been unable to work out what anyone was saying to them. They usually judged what was being said by the tone of voice in which it was delivered. They both wondered how this newfound ability had come to them.
Bugs was hiding her face behind Thumper, burrowing deep into her fur in fright.
Thumper wasn't quite so frightened. She looked curiously at the man who had spoken and who had beckoned to them in the bright light in the backyard. The man was average height and build. He wore a neat blue suit with a grey tie. His hair was cut short and he had the look of having just stepped out of the barbershop. His shoes were highly polished. He was clicking his fingers and trying to get the rabbits to come to him. Fat chance!
A larger man wearing a caftan, beads and sandals—sporting waist length hair and a beard—swept into the room. “Hey, hey, so here you are little dudes.” He sat on the floor and indicated for St. Peter to sit too. God raised his eyebrows as Peter sat in a chair—after dusting it.
"Hey, come over here and talk to us. No one's going to hurt you. It's cool."
Bugs and Thumper thought the temperature was fine. They had never trusted anyone before, but a lovely feeling of peace and serenity emanated from this Being. The beautiful music started again as the bunnies moved slowly and cautiously over and sat at God's feet. They both sniffed them as a matter of course.
God laughed. “Hey, that really tickles. Peter, make a note that we need a couple of rabbits as house pets."
Peter made no such note. He didn't want pets of any sort messing up his environment. “If you two girls ... you know ... need to go ... you tell me, and I'll let you out, okay. Just don't do your business in here."
God sighed. “One of these days, you're going to lighten up, Peter. Let's get down to it.” He looked down at the bunnies at his feet. “I need your help, dig."
"You need our help to dig?” Thumper brightened. This was something she and Bugs knew all about.
Bugs looked around, but the floor was carpeted. “Where can we dig?"
Peter chuckled, “Um, God's being a little unclear. When he says ‘dig’ he doesn't mean ‘dig’ in the sense that you understand it."
Bugs was an extremely puzzled rabbit. “We dig with our paws.... How else can you dig?"
God held up his hand to stop the chatter. “When I say ‘dig', I mean ‘understand'. Understand?"
"Why don't you say ‘understand'?” Bugs was an arch-pragmatist in a species that was already very pragmatic.
"What do you say when you want to dig a burrow?” Thumper was not being smart. She genuinely wanted to know. “That you understand a burrow?"
Now God was confused.
St. Peter sorted it out. “Let's forget God ever mentioned the word ‘dig'. It's an expression some people use for ‘understand'?"
The bunnies both nodded, but they didn't really dig ... understand.
God relaxed, crossed his legs in a yoga pose and looked thoughtful. “Jonathan Goodfellow is your ... err ... person, isn't he?"
"He's our staff member.” Bugs corrected God in her haughty tone. She was more at ease now that these two strange people had shown no sign of hostility.
Thumper was more relaxed too. “His job is to get us the right dinner and to keep our water bowl full of fresh water.... Oh, and he also chases cats back over t
he fence when they come into our yard."
Rabbits are very sure of their position in the world and certain that the world revolves around them and nothing else.
God sighed. “It's a little more complicated that that. Everything sort of depends on everything else down there. It's the way I set it up."
"If you ask me you could have done it much differently.” Peter looked at the bunnies and back to God. “Almost everything down there has to kill something else in order to survive. You could have set it up a lot better."
"It was groovy when I first made it."
"You should never have allowed them free will. Look what they've done with it. Everything kills everything else."
"You were a fisherman, weren't you?"
"I know a lot more now than I did then."
"Okay, okay, I stand corrected. Next time I design a world, I'll ask your advice."
Both bunnies nodded in agreement, thinking He meant them rather than St. Peter.
"Here's the deal, guys. I've got your ... staff member, on a mission to save the world from itself. There's far too much violence and nonsense going on down there."
Thumper nodded. “So you're going to kill all of the cats?"
God frowned. “No, no I'm not.” His look softened. “I need you to do a job for me. When Jonathan wants to talk to me, he has to ask you to make contact."
"Why don't you just let him talk to you himself?"
"Because he'd be at it all day every day, and I'm a very busy God."
Peter sniggered. He knew that if God was more organised, he could cut his workload by half. He said nothing and let God continue to outline what he wanted from the bunnies.
"The point is that this way he can only contact me when he's at home and close to you. I want you to limit him to no more than two contacts a week. If it's an emergency, you can get in touch anytime."
"How do we know if it's an emergency?"
"Listen to the tone of his voice. Check his body language. You rabbits are experts at telling if people are cool by the way that they are acting.... Hey, you can do this thing."
"Will we get some extra carrots or something if we do a good job?"
"I'll do better than that. If humanity continues to screw up, you can have the whole box and dice."
The rabbit's confusion was evident on their faces.
"The next go at running the world, man. I'll wind up the world and you'll inherit it. You can have it all."
"Wow, the whole world? All to ourselves?"
"You'll have to share it with the other animals."
"Some of them want to eat us."
"We'll think of a way round that. Hey, I can do anything.” God was a broad-brush strokes Being. He didn't want to get involved in too much detail until he had to.... And then he would pass it off to St. Peter. “When you go back on Earth, dig your burrows as deep as you can. Those crazy humans are out of my control. There's just a chance they will press the button and blow themselves and everything down there all the way to hell. If you've got nice, deep burrows, you can survive, and we can work out what happens next."
Bugs and Thumper nodded again. They both liked digging burrows and had a whole network of them under the earthen floor of the shed in their backyard.
"So, what do you say, little dudes? We got a deal or what?"
Bugs and Thumper agreed to the terms and conditions required by God. They both hoped that they could remember the instructions.
"Well.” St. Peter stood with finality. He would be glad to get the bunnies out of his space. They were nice little creatures, but as far as he was concerned, they belonged outside. “Let's go then, and I'll get you back to Earth."
"We're a bit hungry. Can we have some dinner before we go?"
God smiled. One of the quirky things he had done with the world was to give little rabbits huge appetites for food and.... “You can graze on the lawn for awhile. I reckon you'll really dig the grass out there."
"We don't want to understand the grass.” Bugs was confused again. “We just want to eat it."
"Okay, okay. Forget I spoke. Just get a tummy full of grass and off you go.” God went quickly to the back door. He paused with his hand on the door handle and turned to Peter. “Far out, man! You'd think I was obfuscatory or something.” He went out, muttering something about being late for another appointment.
Bugs and Thumper ate their fill on the front lawn before they returned to Earth. The grass was the nicest they had ever eaten. It was just ... heavenly.
* * * *
Bugs looked smugly at Jonathan. “We saw God last Tuesday when we went to heaven."
"God took you up to heaven to talk to you?"
"Yes. He said that if he stopped winding the world up, you'd all die. Then he said you'd probably blow yourselves up anyway, so all the rabbits have to dig nice, deep burrows and hibernate in them while people all die out."
"He said He'd wind the world up again then, and we'd inherit it.” Thumper was exaggerating what God had actually said.
"God told you all of this?"
Thumper ignored the question. Again she put words into God's mouth. “There are three intelligent species on Earth, Netherland-Dwarfs, dolphins and people. God can't decide whether dolphins or people run second."
"You're not a complete species. Netherland-Dwarfs are part of a species."
"All the rabbits will survive. Netherland-Dwarfs will rule.” Bugs was almost shouting. “Our mother said we're the only ones who count."
"How do you know so much? Did God tell you all this?"
"Some of it, but God's given us the power to read and understand what people say. We read the newspapers now, when Mrs. O'Reilly chucks them in the shed after she's finished with them.” Thumper shifted position slightly to see Jonathan better. “And we watch television in the guests’ lounge. We know all sorts of things you don't know we know."
Jonathan was unsure if reading newspapers or watching television qualified rabbits, or any other beings, to be adjudged to have knowledge. He wondered if Bugs and Thumper had it right about being the likely inheritors of the Earth. They were certainly meek. The meek shall inherit the Earth.... But all animals are geared to flee or fight, and rabbits are most definitely geared to fleeing. But despite what these two bunnies said, Jonathan was unconvinced that they were really at the top of the evolutionary scale.
These thoughts stemmed from an article he once read in ‘Rabbit's Forever' magazine. It pointed out that rabbits are not always the best problem solvers. They aren't really deep thinkers and never plan too far ahead. They don't have the brains for it. This was a result of the static nature of their dinner. A dog or a cat is a hunting animal. Its dinner is likely to be on the move—or at least it used to be before ‘meaty bites’ and tinned tuna. These animals have evolved to be able to work out plans and strategies to trap their prey. The grass, weeds, bushes and other foliage that rabbits consume never moves anywhere. You don't have to plot to get a carrot, because it just sits there—growing—waiting for you to come along and nibble it.
Jonathan ceased his musing and looked at both the bunnies in turn. Bugs now had her half-asleep look on her face, and Thumper was measuring him. Measuring was another thing they did constantly. They were forever standing on their hind legs measuring him with their whiskers, checking to see if his dimensions had changed since they last saw him.
"Alright, whenever I need to contact God, I'll let you know."
The bunnies both nodded and then hopped out of the room. As a parting shot Bugs said, “Don't forget to put fresh water in our bowl when you get our dinner."
Jonathan was hurt again. In the two years the rabbits had lived with him, he had never failed to put fresh water in their bowl. Jonathan thought it odd that God would choose such self-centred creatures for so important a task.
On their way outside, Bugs and Thumper almost bumped into Mrs. O'Reilly as she lurched through the house toward her cellar. She was in quest of another bottle of her homemade brew. She
did not see them, and they waited until she was well out of the way before they moved outside. Not that they were afraid of Mrs. O'Reilly.
The two soft, fat, little, white bunnies—who looked so solemn most of the time—stirred Mrs. O'Reilly's maternal instinct. They touched her Irish heart and were the cause of the occasional poteen induced tear in her eye as she surveyed them. Mrs. O'Reilly didn't know it, but what stirred her about these two little bunnies was the fact that she was childless. Although Mrs. O'Reilly pretended to have a stern indifference to the rabbits, Bugs and Thumper became child substitutes.
She tried giving them salt, but fortunately they ignored her.
The bunnies did not ask to be allowed to communicate with God and Jonathan, or to be the conduit for good against evil. In fact, if it hadn't been for God being so nice and persuasive, they almost certainly would have declined—preferring to go on doing the usual things that rabbits do. No animal on Earth likes its routine disturbed less than the bunny—and especially the Netherland-Dwarf bunny at that.
Chapter 7
The Key
Jonathan missed the 7.27 and was late getting to work the next morning. His head still ached from the application of the five iron, and he had slept even worse than usual. The man sitting next to him woke him when the train arrived in the city. He walked groggily to his office, only to find the lift out of order—again.
No fat woman screeched from inside it, and the alarm did not peal. The lift simply sat on the ground floor—mute—looking as though it would never move again. Not that it mattered to anyone other than the employees of Jones P. & Son. The company owned the building, and the other floors were empty, pending a major building renovation in the coming year.
Jonathan realised that of the forty-three years he had worked there, the elevator had been out of commission almost the entire time. The only time the elevator had worked was years ago—when he had first started work—at the age of twenty-one. He wondered how any piece of equipment could be so inefficient. Never mind. ‘The exercise has been good for me all these years. Heaven knows I get little enough of it, sitting behind a desk five days a week.