Triptych 1

Triptych 1

By

Matt McGuire

1. The voice of one crying in the wilderness rang in the fetid air as Joshua Bartleby strove mightily through waves of heat down Pilot Street, battling a host of invisible assailants.

"I cast thee into hell, Satan! You shall depart!"

Flinging his arms in a wide arc, Joshua envisioned chain lightning flying from his fingertips, the hosts of the Enemy fleeing in fear, a college town of hungry ghosts and unwitting slaves to dark principalities cringing, kneeling, wide-eyed and horror stricken, lamentations, pleas for mercy, anticipants of doom and fire.

Joshua's feet were mangled from trudging the streets of Beulah in worn, nylon strap sandals, spreading the gospel of Apocalypse and garnering scorn. A tattered surf rock tee and a pair of filthy Dickies scratched and draped over his gaunt frame as sweat poured in broad rivers down his back and face. Joshua held his noble head high, a son of power, a viceregent of heaven in outlet cotton, his nicotine-gummed fingers dancing through the air, blue flame coursing from his eyes, trumpets and tympanies blaring psychotic thunder and glory. The sound and the fury of the Last Day, the twisted maw of an idiot, the weighted scales of myth, the end of the age, a reckoning in Slayer D minor was at hand, and all the passersby could manage to pay was laughter or annoyance in homage to the appearance of a prophet.

2. My hands were clenched in abject terror upon the wooden, unyielding pew in front of me.

Sweat beaded on my temples in tiny droplets, the stale room a furnace, my heavy, nylon winter coat scratched and scraped as my arms shook, gallows heavy and the chorus, over, and over and again assaulted my ears as the bell tolling for thee, and me, definitely me, always me in the flames, in the ash and soot, in the bulbous belly of the beast, in my dreams, in my visions, epiphanies of torment and subjugation—childhood reeked of terror at the banjo-raree show on Sundays.

My mother stood firm beside me in polyester blend, her face, blank, People's Temple post-arsenic, offering up her children on the dais of continuity, blocking the only exit that led to Salvation or freedom. The doors stood bolt shut at the back of the chapel and oh, how I only wished to breathe the clean air of day again, not the pestilent vapors of Baptist hymnals in red satin, Dime Store shaving lotion, moldy carpet, old mansweat, Wrigley's Spearmint, gangrene and knockoff brand oil soap.

The prophet—grim, haggard, skeletal, tatteran, houndstoothed, arms raised to heaven in hopes of brimstone, spittle and chicken liver remnants flying from the corners of his ivory falseteeth, the blood of Calvary poured from the walls in B movie grade melodrama. An enormous grinning cardboard cutout of Satan loomed scarlet from the baptismal, claws furled and child hungry, and dread scorpions ranged the floor in search of lambs' feet. Hideous cackling burst from the Peavey Bassmen as the congregation knelt for the benediction. The sun cracked through the gates of the pit and I ran for my soul wrapped in shame from the lusty teeth of the dragon.

3. Let there be Light.

Warmth. Air. The primal cry of birth and Light, oh light, that new and wondrous gift.

Blood and afterbirth cover him as latex hands cradle his first waking moments. Infinitesimal toes and fingers, and a toothless old one's mouth grasp for the Source, for Mother. The umbilical cord still joins them, blood and nutrients flowing from one to one, still one, breathing, tears, pain and joy, and the myriad blue impressions of Creation. The cord is cut and he lies on her breast, a gentle set of trembling red nails caress the firmament away from his eyes, and the first kiss he receives is stained with her essence.

She cradles him and the Other wheels them down a hall of blinding white and desperate brightness. The First Day, and God wills the breath of kings and beggars alike.