Ysbryd Iawn o Ryfeddod

Part XVII

Deus ex machina. God out of the machine. In case you didn’t know, these are words loathed by literary critics throughout the worlds. I don’t think they deserve this as I find them to be rather cute and timely if you just consider their shape on paper. However, when I consider their meaning, a malicious suspicion sows into my mind. God out of the machine. This is a literary technique that some authors use in which they put their characters into an awful, helpless situation and then get them out of it by introducing some random element. This element was probably not known in the story before and requires little or no growth in the character in its application for their salvation. Some might call a miracle a deus ex machina. Now this observation confirms my suspicions of the meanness of employing this technique because I have a problem with miracles and random salvation suddenly being thrown down from Heaven on some unsuspecting or even suspecting victim (the suspecting victims especially cause me pains). This is because I have never seen a supernatural bust-the-door-down-and-rip-those-chains-off miracle. I have heard report of them and I have seen sunsets and videos of babies being born, but never have I witnessed a fire-work wielding miracle. Hence, I have nagging suspicions of the ones I do hear of. Miracles don’t seem to settle things for me. Hand-to-hand combat does that. Looking my problems in the face and dragging them out the door and behind the tool shed is the only way that I can get rid of them, it seems. The problem with throwing miracles out is that my technique for dealing with problems only goes so far. I can’t break an addiction, or end the human desire for abortion and slavery. If miracles do not exist the world is in trouble. What will the end of the world look like without them? Now after this long and convoluted introduction I arrive at my point, and the conclusion of the story of Alaric and Lovey.

Preston Glover could not have been more high if he had spent the last twenty-five years inhaling opium with every breath. His bloody thoughts and bloody imaginings ran so fast through his mind they became grey streaks and buzzing. His hands shook, moving the steering wheel back and forth perceptibly. He didn’t check his mirrors or his speed. They were going to die. bloody, bloody die. His teeth cracked together, and the road seemed the thing in his imagination and the bloody bodies of Alaric and Lovey the things actually before his eyes. Finally, he screeched to a stop on the opposite side of the street from the Green Fountain Inn, forgetting his gloc in the dashboard, and stepped out of the car. Without a thought he stepped into the street, just as the driver of a pink Suburban received a text message. Crack. Crimson blood gushed from Preston’s head onto the hood of the pink SUV and flowed down to his white shirt. He was dead. Killed just outside the inn without a finger being lifted by Alaric. Red blood looks so good on pink and white.

(Perhaps you may object to calling the murder, even of someone as deadly as Preston Glover, a miracle, but I doubt you will object to calling it a deus ex machina.)

Lovey and Alaric heard the crash, and the following screams of the teenage girl from inside the inn. They rushed out, and Alaric ripped off his shirt to try to stop the bleeding of Preston’s head (even though he knew he was already dead.) Lovey tried to comfort the girl, and called 911. As the blood began to dye Alaric’s fingers red he had a sudden vision. And immediately, he saw Preston in a dank room with dirty dun walls and no furniture except for the matted rug he was kneeling on. His eyes were closed and he was muttering to himself. 

“She cannot live. She will die. You must kill her. She will die. I will break her fingers. Do it. I will break her every bone and cut out her tongue. Cut out her heart. She must never meet the Enemy. I curse that Spirit. He will try to use her to speak His words. She would have been great through him. She will never be. She will die a tyrannized child and join us.”

The vision faded.

Alaric hands lost circulation. He straightened, and looked up. The star looked down on him and smiled. They were saved. Someone had saved them. The Jabberwocky was dead. Lovey was staring at him, letting the girl weep into her lap. She saw his countenance fill with light, and smiled.

Later as they waited in the hospital with the girl, Alaric told Lovey of his vision. Then, he was called away to answer some questions of the police. She grabbed an old tabloid and someone’s forgotten pen off the table and began to write.

I have seen a miracle, but what does it have to do with God. I have seen evil as well. What has sight to do with God? Why do I feel beholden to Him? Why do I feel joy when I think of Him who looks on a world so broken. For the question remains why would He save me and not others? Are not all useful to God, their Creator? I do not know the answer, but as I hear this girl pray who has just experienced the cruelest accident of Providence and choice and murdered a man, innocently, I begin to have faith. She begs Him for forgiveness, and I know He will grant it to her. We make our choices to ruin this world, and yet I know in my gut He will forgive us. I have faith. For without the Great Spirit of Wonder and His wonderful acts there would be no beautiful moments in this world.

Ex malo bien.