Our Existance, Such As It Is

"Well?" The old man enquired, smiling gently. His healthily rounded fingers were pressed together in thought, elbows rested on the gold-patterned wooden table. The arms of his white robe had slipped down, gathering around the pale crook of his arms, revealing the minute cloud tattoo, buried in a nest of wiry hair, which had surprised me the first time I had seen it. The first of thousands. Millions even.

"Everything is perfectly fine, as per." I settled onto the spindly chair that had materialised before the table, my disapproving shuffles making the chair sway on its skinny legs. "Is this really the best you can do?"

I very much doubted so. A chair that could barely hold my weight was not exactly much of a challenge to create. Not after everything else. Still, my Father liked his little jokes.

"Of course not. I was just trying to assist you in building up your ankle muscles. The art of levitating oneself above a frail chair is wonderful for such things."

"Well I have absolutely no intentions of hovering for the whole duration of our conversation."

"Suit yourself." As he shrugged, a large, soft golden painted chair replaced the offending one. I collapsed inelegantly into its red cushions with exaggerated relief. I could have remained on my feet for hours. It was not exactly as if I was going anywhere. For a moment, we sat in silence, wasting time. I did not bother to look around me. I knew what I would see. Clouds, white and fluffy, stretching for miles in every direction, swirling and fading in and out of sight like white paint in a glass of water. It would have been interesting if I had never been here before, but I had, and it was not. And as usual, my Father sat before me regarding my face with blank features, his long white beard like a solid representation of the clouds surrounding us.

"It's snowing in Ivanovo again." I said, in a futile attempt to make smalltalk.

"It's always snowing in Ivanovo." My Father said, glancing down through the clouds.

I could have corrected him, but it would not exactly have added much to our already failing conversation. Out of twelve months, fifty two weeks, three hundred and sixty five days and eight thousand seven hundred and sixty six hours in each year, I very much doubted that it was always snowing in Ivanovo.

Once again, the silence descended. The clouds continued to dance steadily around us, flowing like silk. We watched them together. Occasionally, I thought that I could see familiar faces and shapes appearing for a few brief seconds, before they drifted away again into pale oblivion. Was that a phoenix, rising from the white flames? Did that large haze, separated from the others resemble a proud oak? I blinked my eyes, and it was gone.

"I've been reading this again." My Father's voice snapped me back into reality as he gestured towards the small, chunky book on the table. The spine was split and sagging, the pages ruffled and the corners curled and grimy. Printed on its pale green front was a faded golden cross.

"You'll know it off by heart by now." I remarked, my fingers stroking the faint, shimmering lines. I wished that people would stop putting crosses on the front of the Bible. No matter how many years had passed, they still invoked painful memories.

"Not quite."

"You surprise me." I said, my voice less surprised than a person who had watched a friend approach from a great distance.

"I surprise myself." He smiled softly, his voice light. "Once again though, I find myself despairing."

"Why is that Father?" I asked, knowing the answer.

"These men, these Disciples, they have hardly got their facts right, have they?"

"There are a few mistakes, here and there, I suppose." I shifted uncomfortably.

"More than a few, I would argue. For example, let us open a random page." He reached out for the book and opened it, straining the spine. Clearing his throat, he read. "And the Lord spake unto Moses, Say unto Aaron, Stretch forth thine hand with thy rod over the streams, over the rivers, and over the ponds, and cause frogs to come up upon the land of Egypt."

I lifted my eyebrows at him in amusement. This would hardly make for illuminating conversation, but at least we would be discussing something. Otherwise I would simply walk alone through the clouds, or hear from my fellow residents just how wonderful they were in life, how they had always followed my orders to the letter. And I would nod and smile and thank them, and then I would move on and hear it all again. My Father raised his eyes from the book.

"Since when did I send frogs to punish the Egyptians? If I wanted to punish them, I'd have given them more than a few amphibians! Who was it that wrote this one again?"

"Moses." I told him, picking dirt from under my nails. For the life of me, I still do not know what it is doing up here. God only knows where the stuff comes from, and he certainly is not telling me. One would presume that dirt would be absent from a place like this, but as my fingernails are intent on proving, the case is most definitely otherwise.

"Well!" My Father huffed. "And what about all that nonsense in Leviticus? Who wrote that?"

"Moses." I grimaced at my fingers. "Again."

"Well the man's a fool!" He exclaimed. "A loyal fool, but a fool nonetheless."

"Why do you not bring it up with him? I'm sure we could find him somewhere. He is probably in a lake, showing off again."

"I do not doubt it for a second." He sighed. "I really do despair, my Son. They seem to have taken my words and twisted them into their own opinions. In my youth, I had hoped that my creations could find peace, and I tried to teach them. But look what has happened! They are incurable. They put their faith in the wrong people. They believe too easily!"

"But Father, belief is necessary. It keeps people confident. It gives them reason to think that they have a purpose."

"I know. But it does more than that. It gives them reason to hate. Look at the Crusades! Thousands, probably even millions died. And for what? For a misplaced faith."

"For you." I corrected him. "For me."

"A misplaced faith." He insisted. "That is all we are. The hatred for the Muslims was created by my followers in my name. I find most of the Muslims to be as admirable as my own people."

"What about the modern terrorists?" I asked, curious.

"They too are mistaken. I am certain that Allah would agree with me on that. He too have been given a dire reputation due to the actions of some of his followers. Besides, this terrorism is basically a modern crusade, is it not? It just happens to have happened a few hundred years later, and with far fewer casualties on the side of the attacker. It's much more effective than the crusades fought in our name. If they were less despicable, I'm sure that Allah would be proud."

"He is ashamed of them. I know, I asked him a while ago." I could not even remember when we had that conversation. Was it days ago, weeks, months? It is extraordinary how time blends into one never-ending existence. Reality and fiction. They blur together until one has no idea of what is real. No idea of what is and what is not, what has been and what is yet to be. It was confusing. Surely I was not supposed to feel such confusion? I was supposed to be a Saviour. Confident and honourable.

And when I look up, my Father has gone, taking his imprinted Bible with him. A book of mistakes and regrets. As for me, I sit back in my chair, studying the clouds with the sort of deep fascination that rises from utter boredom. The hours flicker past. This is our Existence, such as it is.