Susan R. Morritt
Behold! The Wrath of Gordon
“I still don’t see why we have to bring all these animals aboard the ark,” Jethro complained. He slouched against the side of the gangplank that led up to the hold of the huge ship, and watched as his two older brothers struggled with a pair of uncooperative ostriches. “There’s going to be mud everywhere, never mind the stink of their shit.”
“The Lord has spoken, Jethro,” his father, Norm, replied. “We alone were chosen to be spared—
“Yes, yes. I know,” Jethro interrupted, impatiently. He glanced up at the dark and threatening sky. Rain had been falling lightly all day, but now it appeared that a downpour was imminent.
“It’s raining cats and dogs,” Jethro sang out in a child-like voice. He cackled with hilarity at his own wit, before being brought back to reality by the force of his father’s open palm as it glanced off the side of his head.
“Go help your brothers, you good-for-nothing boy.” Norm strode past Jethro, and inched gingerly by the ostriches, whom were in the process of being prodded up the last few steps onto the ship. What a useless excuse for a son.
~
Age before beauty. Norm’s three young daughters-in-law stepped back with respect to allow Edna, his wife, to approach their patriarch, unimpeded. Edna, his rock, the matriarch of his tribe, had a steely control over his sons’ wives, which was seldom challenged.
Barb, big boned and bosomed, was the spouse of his eldest son, Sam. Marie, squat, and already broad-of-the-beam, was wed to his middle boy, Hank. As for Annie… Norm’s eyes roved over his youngest daughter-in-law with pure delight. Annie, of the spun-gold hair, and eyes the colour of a cloudless summer sky. Norm licked his lips as he observed the plump curve of Annie’s round breasts through her thin cloth dress. How in Hades name had his son, Jethro, won this maiden’s heart? And why was there no swell of her belly as yet to be seen?
Norm started, when from the bowels of the great ship came the distinct sound of children’s laughter. Children— his grandchildren. His other sons had no problem begetting heirs.
“So, are you and the girls almost finished with the livestock’s feed?” Norm asked, tearing his eyes away from Annie, to meet the sombre gaze of his wife. He spun around, to inspect the piles of stacked hay, bagged grain, and dried meat hanging from the curved ribs of the rafters.
…And the Lord, Gordon, sayeth: let there be a great flood over the land, and let the sin and the evil that man doeth be washed away…
Norm rubbed his hands together, briskly. He was ready.
~
The oasis of billowing clouds spread out across the heavens; shades of apricot and fuchsia, intertwined with rivulets of magenta and lemon yellow, floating in a sea of exquisite turquoise blue. From amidst this riotous colour, sat the Almighty Lord Gordon, perched on his magnificent bejeweled throne. His ponderous, silver head was lowered in absolute concentration.
“Check.”
Across the elaborately carved gaming table, his twin brother, the Dark Lord Lucian, chuckled.
“Checkmate,” he counteracted, tossing back his mane of salt and pepper curls with a grin.
Lord Gordon stifled an oath, and heaving a sigh, he turned away with considerable irritation.
“I’ll take Earth, thank you very much,” Lord Lucian stated, fixing his fiery gaze upon his brother. “Our agreement—”
Lord Gordon’s eyes blazed. “We made no such agreement!” he thundered, rising from his throne with indignation. “I will give you Pluto, or any star you so desire in the next galaxy. Earth is off limits!”
Lord Lucian frowned. “You’re a sore loser, Gordie.” He arose from his throne with the fluidity and grace of a large cat. “A sore loser, and your Word means nothing.”
Lord Gordon sniffed his displeasure, and gazed about to survey the majesty of his realm. “Enough of your insolence! I have spoken, Lucie… and I have work to do.”
Lord Lucian smirked. “Yes,” he replied, “so do I.”
~
Forty days and forty nights… So it was that the Almighty Lord Gordon conveyed through a waking trance, the details of the imminent flood to Norm. Norman, son of Arnold, whom had begotten a legion of sons…with Norman the sole “chosen son.”
Visions and dreams. Of late, holed up in the bulkhead of the great Ark with his family, and the multitude of animals, with the rain pelting down upon the roof, Norm had been plagued by torn emotions. Just this night past, Norm had heard the voice of the fearsome Dark Lord Lucian, whispering in his ear as he lay in a sleepless stupor next to his slumbering wife, Edna. Whispering words in a honied tone, about Annie. Beautiful Annie.
“Go to her, Norm. No one will ever know. She must bend to your will. You are the Patriarch— the chosen one. Your useless eunuch of a son, Jethro, will never beget a child, so it is your duty to do it for him. Give Annie a child of your own loins. Do it, Norm. No one will ever know."
Norm crossed to the forecastle of the rolling ship, and gazed at the rising sea stretching to the empty horizon. Tomorrow…yes. No one will ever know.
~
Forty days and forty nights have come, and gone. Norm and Edna stood alone on the rain-soaked quarterdeck of their great floating Ark home, and watched as the first rays of the sun rose over the eerily calm water.
Where was the rainbow of which the Lord promised?
Norm picked up the bamboo cage at his feet, and opening the hinged door, reached inside to gently grasp the cooing dove within. As he flung the startled bird into the sky above, he shouted aloud. “Lord Gordon, where is the sign? Give us a sign the great flood is over!”
Suddenly, the ship listed with a groan to plunge into a swirling whirlpool, and the cries of both humans and animals filled the air.
Thou hast broken one of my commandments! Thou shalt not commit adultery!
As the booming voice of the Almighty Lord Gordon faded away, Norm grasped the railing, and gazed up at the heavens with horror.
Down, down, and downwards plunged the mighty ship, sucked into a furious vortex of raging waves. Just before oblivion struck, Norman, the chosen one, felt Edna’s hot breath on his cheek as he heard her final words. “You asshole.”
~
“Gordie, I see you’ve been busy,” Lord Lucian remarked, dryly. “You pulled the plug.” He leaned back on his throne, and gestured towards the chess board on the table before him. “Another game, perhaps?”
Lord Gordon, seated across from his brother, shook his head. “No. I’ve work to do, again. Heaven knows the drain will probably be plugged. This creationism sure works up an appetite, though.” He inhaled the breeze that wafted across the shimmering oasis of cloud. “Smells like ribs tonight.”
Susan R. Morritt is a writer, visual artist, and musician from Waterford, Ontario, Canada. Her prose, poetry and art appear in various journals including 34 Orchard Journal, The Rabbit Hole Writers Co-op Anthology VI, The Speckled Trout Review, and Third Estate Art Decapitate Journal. She was short-listed for The Staunch Short Fiction Prize, and long-listed for The Redbud Writing Project Coppice Prize. Susan is a former racehorse trainer who has worked extensively with livestock, including talking turkeys.
