Last Plane to Heaven

Angels iii: A Feast of Angels

Saint Peter made Friedrich Nietzsche coroner of Heaven. Though Heaven stands outside time, all things there both concurrent and infinite, being human Nietzsche had perceptions that were perforce more or less sequential. Heaven’s coroner was a stultifying job, as death was unknown there.

“I am convinced,” Nietzsche told Origen of Alexandria over a six-pack of Stroh’s, “that this is my punishment.” They sat at a picnic table on a small, isolated cloud.

The little Egyptian’s hand spasmed, crinkling his own can of beer. “This is hell,” he whispered. Lately they spoke American English, equally foreign to both. Also equally offensive in its colloquial imprecision. “The Adversary has crafted this eternity for such as us.”

“Could be worse.” Nietzsche stared down off their cloud at a bus loaded with joyful Charismatics bound for Branson, Missouri, on a three-day pass. “We could be with them.”

“Though all days in Heaven are the same, still I have been here a very long time.” Origen tugged another Stroh’s off the six-pack. “There have been worse things. Old Hermes Trismegistus got it wrong. As below, so above.”

Nietzsche shuddered, imagining the Heaven of the Inquisition, or John Calvin. Origen had lived through them both. Aimee Semple McPherson had been bad enough for him.

Saint Peter appeared, potbellied and irritated. His robes were askew and his halo appeared to have developed a crack. “We’ve got a problem.”

“This is Heaven,” said Nietzsche. “There are no problems.”

Origen burped for emphasis, the yeasty odor of recycled Stroh’s disturbing Heaven’s usual pine-scented freshness.

Peter frowned, obviously picking his words with care. “This problem has always existed, but now I wish to address it.”

“Sh-sh-shimultaneity,” said Origen, who had been talking to Einstein lately. “No shuch thing.”

Nietzsche shot Origen a hard glare. “What kind of trouble?”

“Coroner trouble,” said Peter.

“In Heaven? I thought you were just yanking my chain.”

“Consider yourself yanked,” said Peter darkly. “We need you now.”

“Now is the same as then in Heaven,” muttered Nietzsche, disentangling himself from the picnic table. “Where are we going?”

“Other end of time,” said Peter.

“Hot dog,” Origen shouted. He vaulted over the table after Nietzsche and Saint Peter. “I always wanted to see Creation.”

They stood on nothing, slightly above a rough-textured plain receding into darkness. Scattered vegetation struggled from the surface; thin, sword-like plants. The only light was from Saint Peter’s Heavenly effulgence. Somewhere nearby, water lapped against an unseen shore. Unlike the rest of Heaven, this place stank of mold and rust and an odor of damp rock.

“I’m impressed,” observed Nietzsche. “What is this? The root cellar?”

“Foundations, more like it,” Peter said.

They both glanced at Origen, who looked intently into the darkness.

Peter waved his staff and the three of them, still standing on nothing, began to cruise over the landscape. Nietzsche found this far more unnerving than Heaven’s usual cloudscape.

“Clouds,” said Peter, “simply hide the unsettling reality.”

Nietzsche stared at him.

Peter shrugged. “This close to the source, thoughts are words.”

“Mind your soul.” Origen spoke quietly. He sounded very sober.

There was a glimmering of light ahead, a false dawn that grew into a constellation of fireflies as they approached.

“This is the problem.” Peter’s voice was stony and grim. “This has always been the problem.”

The fireflies became bonfires, and the bonfires became a sky full of light, and the sky full of light became a host of angels, in their naked majesty all swords and pinions and flames and power, burrowing amongst ribs larger than rivers.

Angels feasting on the corpse of God.

Like maggots eating Leviathan.

“His bones are the world’s,” Origen said quietly. “His flesh is the world’s. I was right. The Adversary did create Earth to torment us.”

“Heaven stands outside time,” Peter declared. “The world is made, for the first time and anew, over and over. For ever and ever.”

“So what do we do?” Nietzsche asked. “Is this the beginning, or the end?”

Peter turned to Nietzsche, laid one trembling hand on his shoulder. “Make it different this time. You have free will. He made you so. Break the cycle and create us a better world.”

“I have no power here.”

“You are Heaven’s coroner.”

“God is dead,” Nietzsche whispered.

“Long live God,” Peter echoed.

“The Earth was without form and void,” said Origen.

Though it took time beyond measure for them to see the difference, mountains rose from His bones, while the terrible angels birthed snakes who would someday be teachers of men in their innocence.