ABOUT

CONTENTS

EDITORIAL

ARCHIVE

LAGNIAPPE

MAST

SUBMISSIONS

Fiction
by Christian TeBordo


Demigog and Magog

Old Napoleon has found himself a saint to stomp. He is old now, Old Napoleon, and the ages have purified his intentions, have helped him narrow in on that bull's eye in the rings of hell. Napoleon spirals ever closer to unlimited darkness as he spirals about the prone body of the saint, stomping as he goes.

Lying on the ground, on his belly, the saint wonders aloud what he has done to deserve what he assumes will eventually be the breaking of every bone in his body, which is already many of his body's bones broken, and which, at any given moment, is the snap of a bone or two beneath the heel of a boot. He wonders aloud at the snap of each bone: What have I done to deserve this?

It isn't all ideological though. It isn't pure liturgy. Old Napoleon enjoys stomping saints. He says it makes him feel young again, shakes the dust out of his old joints. And he does seem to grow somehow taller with each stomp. Whatever you think about this whole saint stomping business, it's hard not to be impressed by the vigor of this old man with the spring in his stomp. Old Napoleon's passion is refreshing.



Seventy times seventy times has old Napoleon approached forgiveness with fear and trembling, and seventy times seventy times has he reproached himself for his approach. Sometimes reproach is an affirmation of all that smells of his decay, and sometimes reproach is fear and trembling itself, which smells like eternity. The smell of decay turns his stomach, and the smell of eternity empties it. He litters the wilderness with snakes swallowed whole and road bones picked clean, then fasts for forty days and forty nights during which times he is tempted by a devil.

The devil's visits are tiresome to old Napoleon. He is always offering his goods and services at exorbitant prices, but his goods are never any good and his services, too, are lacking in luster, clouded as they are by the desert dust. An amateurish devil, Old Napoleon thinks, a devil who does not deserve the name.

So it comes to pass that after seventy times seventy sets of forty days and forty nights of fasting, Napoleon, deciding that he has paid his dues, forgoes further approaches and reproaches, and sets out to teach the devil his business.



The devil's business is an exhausting one. Seventy times seventy stomps is enough to tire even the greatest of tyrants, and there is no denying that this devil is past his prime. But what he lacks in strength he makes up for in spirit. He is not as efficient as a younger devil, but he is the only one about. And the job gets closer to completion with each deep breathe, with each staggered stomp.

The saint's business is also an exhausting one, and despite his saintliness, he can not help feeling some resentment. He is not, after all, lying on the ground, passively resisting. The saint is no pacifist. In fact, until just now he was no saint. Until just now he was more like a robber, lying in wait. Lying in wait, in the middle of the road, watching Old Napoleon make his way slowly from the horizon to himself, the robber thought: this man in his funny costume will be an easy mark. But he was not prepared to scrap with a buzzard with hands, a snake with feet. In all his felonious years, the robber has never encountered a man with so much of hell in him, with so much hell to give. Lying on the ground, on his belly, the saint can not help but hear hell in each and every snap.

Until finally the stomping stops and the devil tumbles to the ground, heaving and aching and satisfied with his devilry. A smile, his first in years, spreads across his face as he floats toward sleep.



Old Napoleon sups on snakes. When he is stronger he hunts and gathers snakes, swallowing them whole as a snake swallows what a snake eats. As time wears on, Old Napoleon begins to look like a snake, sun-scaled and lithe and ready to spring. The snakes have the advantage of fangs, fangs full of sweet, sweet poison, but Old Napoleon has the advantage of legs, legs that carry him in pursuit of elusive snakes, legs with boots that stomp on snakes that he finds with the help of his trusty old legs. And he is never bitten or poisoned. If he is ever bitten or poisoned he does not notice because there is already so much poison in him.

This poison is a common bond between Old Napoleon and the snakes, and they develop a mutual respect for each other, despite the fact that Old Napoleon continues to swallow them whole. Before his final fast, the snakes surprise him by offering themselves to Old Napoleon, slithering up his body and entering his mouth, as though they sense that his legs will soon be needed for greater pursuits.



Lying on the ground beside the saint, the devil dreams contentedly. In the dream he is a robber lying in wait. Lying in wait, in the middle of the road, watching himself make his way slowly from the horizon to himself, the devil thinks: How much better to be one and another than one or another. And delighted with his bothness, he ceases to lie in wait, and merely lies and waits, on the ground, on his belly, for the devil to do his business.

Lying on the ground beside the devil, the saint dreams a troubled dream. In the dream, he is a tyrant, making his way slowly from the horizon to himself. Making his way slowly from the horizon to himself, the saint thinks: It is as terrible to be one and another as it is to be another. And haunted by his bothness, he cringes with every step, torn by his inability to stop, disgusted with himself for enjoying himself, and wailing aloud beneath phantom stomps.



Old Napoleon lives off of the land. In the leanest of times this means scavenging with the buzzards for his rations. There is a point at which Old Napoleon even begins to look like a buzzard, scrawny and beaky and hunched in hungry wait. The buzzards have the advantage of wings, wings that allow them to survey the desert from the heavens, but old Napoleon has the advantage of hands, hands that can wring the neck of any buzzard that tries to snatch his treadmarked dinner. And in this fashion, many buzzards lose their lives, only to be dropped in the road, unfit for consumption.

Buzzards are nasty creatures, and Old Napoleon does not appreciate their company. They do not gain his respect, nor do they attempt to, as he grows strong and sinewy. Neither does Old Napoleon develop that oneness with nature that many who think to pit themselves against her end their pittance by developing. He hates her as he hates the buzzards. The buzzards are nature, and he will not forgive them for the way that they treated him when he was naked and sainted and snapped.



The devil is awakened by the wails of the saint. Lying on the ground, beside the wailing saint, the devil curses the saint for his wails, for crushing his contented dreams. From within his dreams, the saint continues to wail, wailing without waking, and this, thinks the devil, is unfairness itself, that the devil should be deprived of sleep by a saint who deprives him of it without waking.

The saint is awakened by the doings of the devil, and for a moment, he has forgotten where he is. Lying on the ground, at the feet of the devil, the saint wonders aloud where he is. But his wondering sounds like wailing.

The devil will not dignify wailing with a response. In this world, thinks the devil, there are wailers and there are doers. The saint is a wailer and the devil is a doer, and the devil does not dignify the saint's wails with a response. He just does.



It feels to the saint as though he has been gathering parts of his own body, summoning them from throughout the wilderness. It is not a pleasant process. It isn't fast. He doesn't know whether to measure the time in weeks or months or years. It does not occur to him that he has slept or not slept, though he has not slept for fear of dreaming another bothness. When would he have slept anyway? The sun never ceases to shine, and sleep might have impeded the progression of healings that has reassembled his body.

Lying on the ground, in the desert, the saint moves his fingers and feels his fingers move. He does not waste time bothering to confirm movement in the rest of him, but stands, slowly with old bones creaking. Standing hunched over, like a buzzard, the saint looks down at himself and sees a whole man, though confronted with a photograph or a mirror, he might not recognize himself.

The saint realizes that he is naked, and finds the devil's clothes lying on the ground at his feet exactly where they were left. He puts them on, the tight-fitting gold britches, the billowy white shirt, the gold-fringed sash, the blue overcoat with the tails and the acanthus trim, the leather riding boots and matching gloves, the sword in its bronzed sheath, and the strange boat-shaped hat.

They are not a perfect fit. He is perhaps a bit tall and certainly too thin to look proper in them, but in them he feels strong and able. Despite the fact that he can only see what he looks down upon, the saint imagines that he looks like Napoleon, like an old Napoleon.



The devil revels in his devilry. The devil thinks to himself that all devils ought to be clothed in the clothes of saints. The devil has thrown off the shackles of his devil costume and clad himself in jeans, a t-shirt, and tennis shoes. He celebrates his desecration of these relics with cartwheels on the desert floor, now and then landing on the saint.

Lying on the ground, the wheel in the middle of the cartwheels, the saint suffers his martyrdom in silence. He does not wonder aloud at the pain, at the reasons, but only plays dead, thinking that sooner or later, the devil will tire of him and find himself another plaything.

An angel descends from someone's cartoon conception of heaven, and watches the action at a distance. He
sees the devil, lying on the ground, bruised and snapped and stripped of his devil costume. He sees the saint, dancing victoriously on the head of the devil.



A philosopher will tell you that one can not experience one's own death. Fortunately, there are no philosophers here, only saints, buzzards, and snakes. Without the eternal no of the philosopher, the saint is free to be dead, to be conscious of his death, and the buzzards are free to do what they do with the dead, which is land on them and poke and claw and tear at their flesh.

Lying on the ground, naked and alone, the saint is eaten by buzzards. The sun shines day and night, baking the buzzards' meal for them, baking the saint . It's all quite natural. Everything has found its rightful place. And whether he likes it or not, the saint is free to be unable to do anything about any of it.



The angel places Old Napoleon on his fluffy white cloud, places a halo above his head, hands him a harp, and begins to ascend back to wherever he came from. Old Napoleon does not seem to be very excited about his transfiguration, and lunges from the cloud.

Lying on the ground, naked and snapped, the saint is left alone. Beside him, the emperor's old clothes, his only consolation. It will take him ages to heal, but he will not be naked when he rises and goes looking for a new saint to stomp.

In the beginning, which may be chosen randomly from any point on the circle, God said: Let us make man in our image, and man said: Let us make God in ours. But in this desert, there are no men or gods. There are saints, buzzards and snakes, and the snakes feel the absence of men more strongly than the others, left, as they are, on the ground to devour themselves whole.