Revelations (7 page)

one of Mary’s actually—and it was incredible the things that guy did with different colored lights. Flashing and strobing, different speeds and stuff. It was amazing!

But every time I mention it, Judas has a million and one reasons why we can’t do it. I give up. Arguing with him is a complete waste of breath. And I don’t want to bother Jesus with it. Maybe if I pray on it? Judas does listen to God, after all. We all do.

There is a benefit to that, I guess, not having the lights. I can watch the audience, which is good. I like watching people, watching their reactions, what they think of us. I want to know that they’re enjoying us. Most of them smile, especially the kids. I like them the most. Their parents not as much. So I pretend I’m playing for the kids, and it works for me.

Another town, another show. We’re always on the road, always moving around. I don’t really mind, ’cause I love to play, and this is what we do, what we’re used to. Besides, I love to sing, whenever I’m allowed. I wish I had Jesus’

voice, it’s so beautiful. ’Course it is. It would just be silly to think otherwise.

Oh look, she’s here! I knew she was coming, but I wasn’t sure when. I’d know her anywhere, even if she does look like she’s trying to go…what did she call it?

Incog…something? She says she doesn’t want to take attention away from us. Isn’t she sweet? My sweet, sweet Mary. Wish she was mine. But anyway, she’s here and I’m happy.

She has some girl with her, wonder who that is? I guess I’ll find out later.

She’ll stick around, of course, to say hello. Maybe we can all go out together after?

Wouldn’t that be fun? And maybe Judas can get lost?

One can only hope.

She’s so beautiful. I think people just recognize her anyway, no matter what.

She deserves it. She works hard. I just think it’s Judas being a jealous brat. Uh-oh, I hope he doesn’t give her any trouble. No, wait, I see him. I don’t think he sees her, though.

Ha ha! This is too funny. I see who has Judas by the tail. Good, he deserves it.

Maybe this time we’ll get rid of him for good.

Oh well, a guy can dream, can’t he?

Some refer to him as the bringer of light, others the morning star. Fallen angel, king of hell, a demon by any other name. To me, he shall always be that rather large pain in my ass.

And yes, I am talking about none other than old Lucifer himself. The Devil.

Satan. Beelzebub. Whatever. One and the same to me. Thorn in my side. Worse than that, thorn in my Jesus’ side, and
that
is what bothers me more than anything, his continued efforts to seduce him, to woo him to his side, to destroy him. How can he not see that will
never
happen? Ever? Especially not while I have breath in my body with which to fight him.

He runs his tongue along the outside of my ear, and I know we’re drawing attention to ourselves, how can we not be? Or, rather he is, with his unwelcome advances. Goddammit, this is a fucking redneck town, what do you think they’re going to do but gawk? Especially when he’d command attention purely from his presence alone. He towers a few inches over me easily and he is, I have to admit, a most beautiful man. One I’d surely stare at myself, not knowing who or what he is.

His platinum blond hair drops almost to his waist in a sheer vertical fall, while he possesses eyes of the most piercing blue—like looking into the heart of a glacier.

I’ve never seen eyes of this particular shade nor clarity before. And chiseled lips that simply beg to be kissed.

What, you think I desire him? Think again. Not if he were the last fucking man on earth. Or anywhere else. And not if I were in desperate need of fucking.

“Judas, sweet Judas,” he continues to murmur, and as I decide to hell with caution and bring my arm back to jab him, he catches my elbow handily in his grasp. “Now, is that any sort of a greeting, darling? When I’ve waited all this time to see you?”

“Fuck you,” I snarl, pulling away from his grasp, maintaining what dignity I can as I turn to face him. He is immaculately garbed in an ice blue suit that looks damn good on him. I’m indifferent to his charms, but I’m not blind. And he possesses a certain glow, an aura, although I know it’s not visible to the masses.

We all have it, actually, but each one’s different. It all depends upon the person in question. And they can change, depending upon one’s emotional state. It’s hard to explain. Maybe if you’ve ever seen a mood ring, you’d understand. Except where those worked on the principle of body warmth, ours are actually attuned to our emotional states. Mine is probably quite red at the moment, deep maroon even.

“Leave us alone.” By which I mean leave Jesus alone in particular.

“You know I can’t do that.” His eyes twinkle merrily at me, like a satanic Santa.

I gather my wounded dignity as well as I can, straighten my wrinkled suit, while maintaining a certain distance between us, for safety’s sake.

Let me state right here and now, just for the record, that I have
never
, I repeat
never
fucked this man. Not once in over two thousand years. Not that I’ve not been asked, not that he hasn’t attempted to seduce me countless times over the centuries, but I’ve been able to resist him each and every time, I’ve never fallen victim to his great charms. What makes me so special, you ask, that I can stand up to the Devil himself, when surely he knows how to make himself most irresistible to me? The answer is simple, if you care to think about it. My love for Jesus, of course. It shields me from Lucifer, as does his love for me. Yes, temptation can be overcome, Virginia, but you have to want to overcome it, first.

Of course I know my demand will go unrequited, but I still have to try. I know why he’s here. I know who he represents—the so-called moral majority who’d stamp us out of existence if they could. Those self-righteous bigots who call themselves good fucking Christians. They pretend to focus on the word of God, but they are seriously into self-aggrandizement. They feather their nests, amassing wealth right and left for their so-called churches. Jesus never had need of a church, he didn’t care for them. Rather he preferred to reach out to men directly. He went to them, he didn’t make them come to him. He never sought wealth, not for himself, so why is it there are so many fucking wealthy churches? Why isn’t the money being used for those who are going without? The hungry, the homeless, the poverty-stricken? The whore has money, why doesn’t she use her wealth for those in need, rather than in pursuit of her own selfish pleasures, not to mention her need to aggravate me? I repeat, why don’t we cut her out of the story now, she serves no useful purpose?

“I knew you were coming, of course. Doesn’t mean you can paw me like a piece of fresh meat.”
Or him either
, my eyes add meaningfully, a warning to him, one I intend him to heed. Will he? I doubt it. I’d love nothing better than to bloody his fucking nose on my fist, watch him writhe in pain. Unfortunately, I think he’d like that.

“I bet your darling Mary M wouldn’t mind.” He smirks—sometimes he’s on the very verge of queendom, I swear. And annoying as fuck. “She enjoys a good pawing, doesn’t she?”

“She is
not
my darling anything!” I snarl. A bit too loudly, I fear, for I’m attracting unwanted attention again. He merely chuckles at my vehemence as I lower my voice. Luckily the music masks our conversation from most of the unwashed masses about us. “I have an idea, why don’t you take the whore with you? I’m sure she’d make a splendid addition to your coven, or harem, or whatever it is you have these days.”

He’s looking past me, over me, through me, into the crowd, grinning quite mischievously now. And such a self-satisfied smirk he wears. With a growing apprehension, I turn to see what the fuck he’s staring at, scanning the backs of the heads between me and the stage.

And then I see her. When the fuck did she get here? And who is that tramp with her? They’re dressed like the whore plate special at the country buffet.

Dammit
! What is she trying to do? Is this her idea of fucking discretion? And is that why Jesus was walking among us, was he with her? My jealous fingers itch to simply grab hold of her, to tear out those ridiculous weaves she wears, snatch her baldheaded, and send her flying out the door so fast it’ll make her goddamn head ring. Only the knowledge of the spectacle that would make—and an unseemly one, not at all conducive to Jesus’ well-being—keeps me from doing so.

As if he can read my very mind, Lucifer is leaning into me again, whispering heatedly in my ear, “You know she’s here to see Jesus, don’t you? She really does his cause no good, her association with him just makes him look cheap. Like a trashy little boy toy who jumps at her every command. I’m surprised they haven’t made the cover of the supermarket tabloids yet. Everyone thinks they’re lovers, you know. Think he’s fucking her six ways to kingdom come. He might as well do what he’s accused of doing, don’t you think, why put off the inevitable?” Without thinking, acting upon sheer instinct (and yes, blind jealous rage, I admit it) I draw back my hand in preparation to strike those words from his filthy lips, rid him of any such disgusting notion, only to find I have been arrested in mid swing, and I’m being held carefully away from the vicinity of that devil’s face.

Lucifer is smirking openly at the figure that holds my wrist in his tender grasp, and I don’t need to look to know who stands behind me—I’d recognize his touch anywhere.

“Are you coming to
my
defense, Jesus, or his?” Lucifer chuckles lightly, blows his savior (no pun intended) an air-kiss, as he touches my face with his fingers, running his thumb over the corner of my lips softly. “Judas, darling, never play poker, your face gives everything away, my pet.”

I swat his annoying hand away, irritated beyond belief at his impudence, his bellicose brashness—how dare he fucking touch me like that? Then Jesus takes that very same hand also into his grasp, and I am too dumbstruck to do anything else other than simply stand there, helpless in his grip, melting into his touch. The fight drains from me just that quickly, like snow on hot asphalt, replaced by another, far stronger emotion.
Kyrie eleison
, I pray to myself, please don’t let me fall apart right here and now. Stand strong, Judas, stand strong.

“You only wish to exacerbate him,” Jesus rebukes him, his voice gentle, yet tempered with his disapproval, “why do you take pleasure from his aggravation?

Harass me, if you choose, but please leave Judas alone.” I’m quivering now. In righteous indignation. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself. Why don’t I do something, release myself from Jesus’ hands, take control of this situation, force Lucifer to accord me some modicum of respect? Maybe because I like his touch too much to risk losing it? Oh Lord…

And then there is another country heard from. A very welcome intrusion indeed, though, truth be told. She sounds so much like him.

“Jesus, I think Judas could benefit from some air, if you would…” The rest of the words hang unspoken but understood. Diffusing the situation, I believe it’s called.

“Yes, of course,” he immediately agrees, and just that quickly he’s released my hands; he grasps my sleeve instead, tugging at the cuff to indicate I should follow him. As if I could do otherwise?

The last glimpse I get of them before the crowd swallows us whole on our way out the door, is the image of Mary, mother of Jesus, squaring off against Lucifer. I have to admit he’s the one I feel sorry for. How I wish I could hear what will be said in that conversation.

Go Mary! You can do it!

But for now, first things first. Just where are we going? And then what?

My son is a good man. A very good man. Let there be no doubt in anyone’s mind about that. Not that I think there is, but I’m not one for leaving anything to chance.

It’s not that I think he needs help dealing with the situation. Far from the case.

Jesus can, and has, held his own against the Devil on more than one occasion.

Many times, in fact. No, I don’t worry about that. It’s the other situation I think he can’t handle at the moment, the one with Judas, which is why I stepped in, in order to remove both of them from here, for now. I don’t consider myself an interfering mother by any means. I’ve stood aside many times when it would have been so easy to try to do something to help him.

But that isn’t the way it is, and I accept it. Being the mother of Jesus Christ isn’t easy. Yet I wouldn’t change my life—or my lives—for any other. That, too, I do know.

I glance at the face of the handsome man standing before me so brazenly, watching him watching me. Yes, the devil has his charms, of course he does. He was once an angel, after all. One of His chosen. He is knowledgeable in the arts of seduction and deceit, and can make you feel you’re the most desirable person in the world. If you allow him to, that is. There are many who have fallen prey to his siren call, unable to resist his blandishments, his pretty words. But neither is he completely evil, either. No one truly is. No one is beyond redemption. No one. But neither would I blindly trust him. Call it a mother’s instinct, if you will. Or maybe it’s because I’ve seen him in action before. And for some reason I think he’s trying a completely different tack this time. I won’t allow my son to be hurt. Not in that way. It’s time for a divertissement, I think.

His eyes follow the two boys—no, young men, excuse me—as they leave the building together. I have to wonder what he’s thinking, but that can wait for another time.

“You’re looking well,” I offer. “My compliments to your tailor.” Vanity may as well be this man’s middle name. It surely is his alter ego. He smirks at my words, obviously pleased.

“I was His most beautiful angel, after all.” He pirouettes prettily for my inspection. He’s such a child at times. I humor him with my praise.