The teaching methods at the school pre-dated Dickens. We memorized anything that didn’t move – poetry, Shakespeare, even trigonometry tables. It seems odd to me now, but I somehow took exactly the same trigonometry course three years in a row. The first year I only got 50% on the final, so I wasn’t surprised to see myself back in Trig class in grade 11. But that year, I got a 72%. I thought I was done, but then in grade 12 I found myself back again. Protests and lamentations were fruitless. I was like Itchy falling off the ledge and hitting his head again and again. Once more I had to listen to the teacher Musty’s drivel. He said exactly the same thing at exactly the same time each year, including the same droll jokes. He would shake with his mirthless chuckle at the same point, year after endless year. You couldn’t even ask a question because it would mess up his routine. He would give you a blank look, perhaps chuckle a little as though you were incapable of comprehending even the simplest trigonometric function, and then carry on. By the third year I had the whole routine down pat and could tell everyone exactly what he was going to say before he said it.
There was an exhaust fan in the Trig room that was never turned on for fear, I think, of sucking inspiration from the air. During my third year, a robin built her nest inside the casing. When her eggs hatched, the family brought a hint of life to the class with their joyful chirping. One day, as I listened to Musty drone on and on, I watched my hand, seemingly of its own volition, crawl towards the switch on the wall that controlled the fan. I willed it to turn back. I willed Musty to icily ask me what on earth I thought I was doing before it was too late. My fingers continued in their remorseless path. And then, just as Musty worked his way up to the punch line of one of his favourite jokes, I flicked the switch. The fan came to life, going from threat to full speed without a pause. The robins exploded. The next day, I wrote the final and got 82%. I had graduated.
The paint over the giant mural of Chester seems to be wearing off. Regardless of how many coats I have the workmen splash over it, I cannot be rid of those eyes glaring at me every time I go by, following me like those on a Renaissance Jesus. The sores continue to grow on my shoulder. On the streets there are more and more people wearing the t-shirts. Now there are posters as well. Chester is no longer seen alone. He stands with another, side by side. I could swear the other looks like… no, that’s not possible.
When Red Flower appeared one night in my dreams, she was no longer smiling. She took my hand, wordlessly. Together, we walked towards a church. When we arrived at the doors, she dropped my hand and motioned for me to enter.
“Come with me, ” I pleaded. “Don’t make me go in there by myself.”
She shook her head. A tear rolled from one eye before she walked away.
The dream continued. There were messages scrawled on the walls. We are all evil. The end is nigh. The wrath of God is upon us. Come to me. Be born again and rise above the flood. A man in robes stood at the pulpit. Behind was a mural showing a beaver. I admitted what I had known the first time I saw the likeness on a t-shirt. It was a copy of the mural on our gym wall. I took my eyes off the poster while its eyes followed me. As I approached, the figure at the pulpit became clear. It was Voelot. He began to speak:
Man is born evil. He carries the sins of Adam on his back. Even the youngest of children carry serpents writhing in the pits of their bellies. Like all of us, they are born damned, damned, damned. It is only at God’s pleasure that the wicked are kept from Hell. He holds His sword of divine justice over your heads and it is only His arbitrary mercy that stays His hand. He that believeth not in Him is condemned already. He is once more angry. He has prepared the pits of Hell where the flames now rage again and its mouth is wide open ready to swallow you. You walk over it as on ice that thins with each passing moment, as even do you yourself become heavier with each wicked act you perform.
You delude yourself with your schemes to avoid its fury. But there is no escape. You are abominable to Him, a thousand times more so than the most loathsome spider. The bow of His wrath is bent. He is preparing to break down His dam and let loose the floodgates of His rage once more. You will be crushed. Your blood shall flow in rivers before the deluge.
The Book of Isaiah tells us, “And it shall come to pass, that from one new moon to another, and f rom one Sabbath to another, shall all flesh come to worship before me, saith the Lord. And they shall go forth and look upon the carcasses of the men that have transgressed against me; for their worm shall not die, neither shall their fire be quenched, and they shall be an abhorring unto all flesh. I will tread them in mine anger, and will trample them in My fury, and their blood shall be sprinkled upon My garments, and I will stain all my raiment.”
I hold you by a thread above the yawning abyss. I am gathering the elect in my hands. Be born again! Accept salvation in My name and you shall live forever in My grace.
He turned then to the mural behind him, and held out his arms. The figure in the mural came to life. Voelot introduced him,
And He said to me,
“It is done! I am the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end. To the thirsty I will give water without price from the fountain of the water of life. But as for the cowardly, the faithless, the polluted, as for murderers, fornicators holding in their hands golden cups full of abominations and the impurities of their fornication, sorcerers, idolaters, and all liars, their lot shall be in the lake that burns with fire and brimstone.”
In my dream, the sores burst all over my body. Little bald bespeckled heads popped out. A thousand Chesters screamed at me, “Be ready for death before you sleep. Be prepared to face our God. Divest yourself of your sins before they drag you into the pits of Hell where you will burn for all eternity.”
When I awoke, the sores now covered my entire body, sores just like the one on my shoulder where Mr. Voelot had grabbed me, sores becoming more and more like the ones in the story, more and more like the ones in my dream.
The doctor didn’t know what they were. “Are you under a lot of stress?” he asked. “You should try not to worry so much.” Worse and worse. The little bumps grew larger and larger. I knelt. I knew now who to pray to. With a shudder I began. Still to Chester, but no longer to Chester and my superman, my benevolent God. Now it was to Chester the son to my angry godfather, Voelot. What had I done? The beaver at the end of the world no longer worked to protect the dam. He was on the other side. The end was nigh. The flood was coming.
“Forgive me my sins…”