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It was my idea to start the bulletin.
Officially, it is the remit of one of the lower-ranked angels (I always imagine it being Muriel, though they’re not here at the moment). Each week, a Scrivener compiles a list of the most notable events and discoveries among humans that have occurred over the past seven days. There are usually pictures, or even graphs, and I insist that the information is presented on paper. Not real paper, of course, but miracled paper. The texture of it as one weighs it in one’s hands isn’t quite the same… but then, the way one’s hands feel in Heaven isn’t at all like the way they feel on Earth either (up here, they feel impossibly light, but ‘light’ as in ‘empty’, not ‘free’ or ‘in flight’). So, I suppose it doesn’t matter either way.
My intention was to make a routine of passing the singular copy of the bulletin throughout the offices in Heaven, so that each angel would in time learn more about Earth, and with any luck grow a genuine interest in it. However, despite my efforts, more often than not it ends up in a translucent wastepaper basket down the hall from my desk before anyone but me can even so much as skim it.
(I suspect it’s Michael that puts it there as soon as I am finished with it - almost undetectable but for a tiny corner of the last page, poking out over the basket’s rim just far enough that I’ll spot it as I walk by.)
Each Monday afternoon, after finding a moment in which I am quite sure I am alone, I pore over the pages with absolute focus, in search of any sign of you . What chaos have you caused this week? Or, more accurately, what chaos have you watched idly as it unfolded, overactive left eyebrow raised and thumbs hooked through your belt loops?
I know you’re retired, these days. A former demon. Nevertheless, I hope against hope that someday, there will be a sign for me; an antic that could only have been devised by your mind, intended only for my interpretation.
Needless to say, I have yet to find one. But, today, I came awfully close.
You see, there was a space mission. Its name escapes me, but I am sure you will know it. You always did follow them all ever so closely. Anyway, its purpose was to discover as much about Jupiter as possible, and among its findings was a collection of images of the planet’s face. One of these images was chosen for the front page of the bulletin, and beneath it were the scientists’ ‘findings’ among established ‘facts’ about the planet. They even go so far as to claim it is the oldest planet in the solar system.
Did you predict that humanity would come this far, Crowley? Did you plant these little non-facts, these tidbits of false knowledge, to throw humans off the scent?
Did you think it kinder to guide them towards the belief that the universe was not to be controlled by God till the very last, but rather that it was theirs for the conquering? Or have they figured these falsehoods out entirely by accident, not because of but in spite of the way you lit up the galaxy all those years ago?
Whatever the answers to my questions may be, it is clear that they are the most determined creatures in all of creation. They are dedicated, at times almost to the point of delusion, to finding beauty wherever it can tangibly be interpreted. And even the most clear-minded of humans must see the beauty in Jupiter. The swirling ripples of the clouds, the delicate quality of its many tiny moons… the Great Red Spot, the storm plaguing its surface that has lasted at least 200 years… the sheer size of the planet, eleven times the diameter of Earth. Enormous, tempestuous, and mighty beyond comprehension.
I wouldn’t be surprised if it was one of your proudest projects. It is complex in a way that uniquely fascinates those who know it, gorgeous both at the barest glance and the closest examination. It must have been one of the final works you created, seeing as we rolled out the solar system some time after I helped you- well, after I held the scroll while you lit up your so-called ‘star factory’ the first time we met.
I warned you, then, of what might transpire if you started making suggestions Upstairs. And I didn’t enjoy watching what happened afterwards. But, if I could do it all again, I wouldn’t wish you had asked fewer questions…
… I would wish that I had asked more of them.
We saved the Earth once, Crowley. Together, me and you, as a team, a group. With a little help from our friends, that is.
And I reckon we can do it again. In fact, we don’t particularly have a choice. But, for now, I’ll keep standing by until there is a real sign from you. Because we can’t get started until you send me a message.
Make haste, dear boy. I eagerly await you.