From the Mouths of Snakes

By Cardigan Broadmoor

In the beginning, Jim Adiney knew that he was God. Not a god or some god, no, no. He was the only god. The people of the valley nowadays had forgotten that fact. Actually, they had done something much worse. They had found some other, obviously inferior, deity to replace him.

A snot-nosed little brat named Joshua.

Jim saw his smug cherubic face whenever he closed his eyes. He thought about how obsessed the people of the valley had become with him. He thought about how they clapped and cheered when the little brat danced at congregation meetings instead of listening to what was being preached. He thought about all the undeserved attention he was given. Then Jim felt a sudden static shock of disgust and uncertainty. A human’s lifetime of knowing everything and now, finally, he was confused. How dare they do this? How could they worship such a petulant little thing when Jim Adiney existed? It was blasphemous! There was space enough for only one god in the valley. Perhaps these ungrateful snakes expected him to die soon.

     Ha! Him. Jim Adiney. Dead. He grunted. It was a ridiculous idea. Even before all the wealth, the power, and the following, he knew he would live forever. And he did not need the consoling words of medical frauds to know that. He was the universe as much as he was himself and the people of the valley all at once. So it was in their best interest that he lived, really, because when Jim Adiney died, everyone died. The world died.

     Still, for some deep subterranean reason he worried. What if he really was only human and that was all he ever had been? The thought made him stop rocking in his chair on the porch. It was an early grey hour in the middle of April, and he was trying to will the sun to rise. He knew it could not rise unless he willed it to. Who did the people expect to do this if he was not around? That cretin Joshua? Impossible.

     But could it be possible, Jim wondered, that somewhere in his eternal life he had done something wrong? Made some cataclysmic mistake that revoked his divinity and immortality? He could not remember now. He knew that he had never told a lie. Yes, he knew that much for sure. In order to tell a lie, you had to lack the willpower to make it true. Jim Adiney had all the willpower in the world. But damn it, today he was distracted. The sun idled just below the horizon, smoldering. A dying red ember beneath a pile of ashes.

     No, no, there was nothing wrong with Jim Adiney. There was something wrong with Joshua and what was wrong was that he existed. The little brat had to be dealt with. Of course he was no seriousthreat, Jim assured himself, yet he could not allow this blasphemy of idol worship amongst his people to persist. It was simply becoming too much of a hassle.

The fuming god grumbled as he rose from his chair and lumbered over to the shed. He disappeared inside and re-emerged a few minutes later with a burlap sack now slung over his shoulder and a large knife dangling from his belt. He stomped down the hillside through his apple orchard which, despite producing so much fruit that most of it ended up rotting on the ground, was off-limits to everyone but him.

Down below he spied a sprinkling of yellow lights poking through the misty grey silk that shrouded the valley. The people had grown fat on the milk and honey of this land. They prospered in the safety and comfort it provided them, but had forgotten who it was that saved them from their menial lives and who it was that showed them how to take what they deserved, how to burn the rest and kill whoever got in their way. They had forgotten who brought them from the fires of the hell that was outside into the coolness of the valley. Well, it was Jim Adiney damn it. No one else. He had the old burns on his wrinkled old hands and the scars on his weathered face to prove it. What scars did this imp Joshua have? What had he ever done to warrant adoration?

    Jim skulked through the compound. All the buildings there were longhouses. Light morning rain tickled the aluminum rooftops. Before these were built, the people lived out of tents, abandoned houses, and busted-up cars and trucks all along the jagged rusted edges of the country. They were run out of towns and hounded by police. They fought. They stole. They killed.

     And after all that, sure enough, he led them to this valley and built an earthly paradise. That was when they knew Jim Adiney was God.

    Now, years later, they were simply placating a derelict god. They still took his weekly prophetic pamphlets faster than the scribes could produce handwritten copies, but these collected dust on their bedside tables while the pages remained crisp and the words unread. He knew. He saw this with his own eyes when he peered through their windows. And when Jim spoke to the people, reciting epic tales or giving profound advice, he made note of their practiced grins and watched their oblivious eyes fog over. They were merely humoring a foolish old man.

Jim came upon the longhouse where all the children slept, and he opened the door. Inside, he found the boy right away by his golden hair in the half-light. He looked down at him as he slept comfortably in his cot. The peaceful round face filled Jim with anger. He wondered if this was a grandson or even great-grandson of his. He could not keep track anymore. All the people in the valley were his children. 

‍ ‍“Child,” he whispered. “Come along with me.”

     Joshua’s eyes opened up slowly and sparkled when he saw who was calling him. He giggled and did as he was told. The giggling was like nails scraping sandpaper to Jim’s ears. The two of them tip-toed out into the mist and disappeared up into the foothills. Then Jim got right to the point.

‍ ‍“You know that I am God, don’t you, Joshua?” he asked.    

     Joshua shrugged. 

     “What’s a god, Papa?” he asked.

     Jim chuckled and shook his head. How this brat mocked him!

‍ ‍“I am God,” he declared. “I am the only god; there are no others. Some people outside this valley worship dusty magicians they read about in old books. Some of them even worship trees like the ones all around us. But trees aren’t special. Old books can’t be trusted. The only thing you can trust in this whole world is . . .”

     He gave the weaselly snot a chance to fill in the blank, but no answer ever came.

‍ ‍“Me,” concluded Jim.

     “I—I don’t know what you’re sayin’, Papa—"

‍ ‍“You know exactly what I am saying!” Jim snarled.

    Joshua looked confused, like he was about to cry. Jim enjoyed the thought of making him cry. It brought a smile to his stony face.

‍ ‍ “It means that whatever I say is bad is bad, and that whatever I say is good is good.”

     Joshua still looked confused.

     “Oh,” was all he said.

“Don’t you remember any of that from our weekly meetings? From the weekly revelations?”

     “Uh-uh,” said Joshua.

     Jim grunted. He had expected as much.

“Look, Papa!” shouted Joshua, pointing to a muddied white shape fluttering on the ground.

     Joshua trotted over and scooped it up in his chubby hands.

     “It’s a baby dove, Papa!” he squealed, excitedly. Then he looked concerned. “Is he hurt? Can we help it?”

     There was a sudden sparkle in Jim’s eyes.

‍ ‍ “Yes, it is hurt,” he said. “Do you see that wing? It looks broken. And yes, of course, we can help it.”

     Jim picked up a rock a little larger than his fist and handed it to his nemesis.

“It would be very good if you put that poor sweet thing out of its misery.”

     Joshua gasped and shook his head.

     “No, no! I don’t want to hurt him!” he whined.

“But . . . it’s hurting right now,” Jim implored. “Look at the thing; it’s in agony. And even if it lives, it might just get hurt again. Might as well spare it now.”

     Joshua pouted.

     Jim tried a different approach.

‍ ‍ “Well, think of it this way: when that cute little bird grows up, it might become a blazing white terror to cute little bunnies and mice. Why, it might even come and peck your eyes out! You can’t expect a wild animal to show mercy, child. You especially can’t expect it to remember the kindness you done by feeling sorry towards it.”

    Jim knew this fair-haired usurper lacked the will to do what had to be done. Jim knew he was afraid of a little blood, a little death. He was weak.

‍ ‍“I’ll do it then,” said Jim. He placed the limp bird at the base of a tree and lifted the rock above his head.

     Jim was never afraid of death, be it a little or a lot. He used to drown small animals in the washtub when he was Joshua’s age. At first, he would love them—love to pet them, to cuddle them. But eventually they would do something he did not like. The puppy would nip his fingertip, or the squirrel would scratch his cheek. Then Jim would strangle them. He would hold them under water till they had gasped their last breath. One day he tried the same thing on his younger brother, but their father stopped him and beat him before he could finish the job. His father screamed in his face and demanded an explanation. Jim promised never to do it again.

     The rest of that day was lovely. There had even been a rainbow in the sky.

There was no rainbow when Jim smashed the rock on the dove’s head. The sky remained gray as he ground the small creature into even smaller bits.

     Joshua turned his head, crying.

     Jim Adiney grinned. Those tears were heavenly!

     This was no god that stood before him blubbering. It was silly to have feared such a pathetic thing even for a moment. But wait. No. There was still a chance that this was the kin of Jim Adiney. If so, he could still be trouble at some point. He had to be dealt with permanently. Jim held the burlap sack open in front of Joshua.

‍ ‍ “I am sorry to see you cry, child. But death is a part of this world. Now put that sweet angel in the bag. I know a beautiful place we can bury it. A place it would have liked.”

     Joshua hesitated at first, sobbing, but did as he was told. Jim hated that. He wanted the boy to be defiant. Jim made so many rules and commandments for a reason: he wanted people to break them so he could in turn break their fingers or carve up their flesh. He wanted to punish them like they deserved because it was his godly duty. In every building on the compound there was a wall from which hung a canvas sheet filled with his incalculable rules and brutal punishments, as well as room to add more as he came up with them.

     Jim had been the same way even as a young boy. He always bullied his way into the lead in whatever games the children played, or made up his own new games, with his own strict rules and harsh penalties. He wanted any toy that was not his; if he could not acquire them by commanding, he would gouge eyes and snap shins. He was too gigantic to be stopped.

Even now in his hunched old age he was gigantic. The ground shook as he trudged up the hill. At the very top there was a large flat stone, stained brown. Jim pulled a tinder box from his burlap sack and started a fire. Then he threw the whole sack and what was left of the dove into the flames.

     “What’re you doing?” whined Joshua. “You said you would bury it in a nice place it would like!”

“Oh, my poor child!”exclaimed Jim, pointing to the rising sparks. “See? His body, though taking other form, goes to the skies. What better place for a bird to be buried?”

‍ Joshua looked up, sniffling, but seemed convinced. Jim wrapped his arm around his shoulders.

‍ ‍“You must learn to trust me. You must always trust me.”

     “I do trust you, Papa,” said Joshua.

     Jim looked at the dark gray sky and asked,“You do?”

     “Mhm,” the young boy mumbled.

‍ ‍“Come then, child,” said Jim. “Come lay on the stone now.”

Joshua reacted slowly, hesitantly. In the flickering light of the fire his angelic features were more apparent and defined. Jim sneered. The boy was more handsome than he had ever been in his eternal life. It was just one more reason to despise him.

     Once again, Joshua did as he was told. He climbed up on the rock and lay down. Jim kept him in place with one massive hairy hand pressed down firmly on his chest as he unclasped the knife from his belt and held it above the young boy’s head.

     “Papa . . . Papa, that hurts . . .” Joshua groaned.

“Now, don’t you worry about that, my little lamb,” said Jim. “I want you to really see that you can trust me. Trust in me and this blade cannot hurt you. Nothing can hurt you. Don’t you see? I want you to see.”

     Jim looked down at Joshua and smiled.

‍ ‍ “I love you,”he said.

Joshua smiled back.

   Then Jim brought down the knife and annihilated his enemy. He brought it up and down over and over again a hundred times at least. He hacked off this piece, and he sliced off that piece. He laughed as he smeared blood all over the stone. Then he threw what was left of the gory mess into the fire. All except for one piece–the same piece he kept from every sacrifice. He kept that for himself and put it in his left breast pocket.

Jim had killed many times before. He had even killed family before. He had killed his father and his brother, and he had killed his first son, Devin, too. Joshua had reminded him terribly of his first son. Devin had been the most beautiful and logical of all his children. He had also thought he could challenge Jim Adiney, who now practically danced down the forested hilltop and floated back into his rocking chair on the porch. He sighed and looked up at the sky. It was finally finished. He was covered in blood. Oh, how impressed the people of the valley would be when they saw him like this! They would pay attention to him again and praise him for eternity. They would never leave the valley. 

     Jim rocked back and forth as he turned to thinking about his grandfather, long gone and returned to dust. The old man was always hollering at snakes in the garden. He used to sit for hours in a chair on a porch just like where Jim was sitting now, chastising the slithery interlopers with mouth and walking stick. At every opportunity he would warn the children never to trust the words from the mouths of snakes. The old man really had been quite insane. Jim was glad beyond measure he had never lost his mind like that. He was glad not to be human. He was glad to be God. And he knew he was God because the sun had finally begun to rise.