Clootie's Cover Read online

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  In the battered doorway stood the old man of the village, Clootie - the Devil himself, surrounded by his mob of gibbering, deformed villagers, more animal than human. His green eyes shone excitedly, his glistening face steamy and contorted. Behind him a natty, leather-clad spiked tail thudded against the ground. He grinned, smacked his lips and stepped forward into the room.

  'Saints preserve us!' muttered God, making the Sign of the Cross.

  'Well now, look who it is,' the Devil tittered.

  The Lord took out a large white handkerchief and dabbed His face and forehead. 'Ugly beast!' He retorted. The Devil laughed out loud. He tapped a monstrous claw against a beam that ran along the ceiling and playfully raised an eyebrow.

  God cleared His throat and whispered from the corner of His mouth, 'Peter, what is the standard procedure in situations such as this?' He paused for the reply, eyeing the Devil suspiciously, but none came forth. Someone cried, 'that's it!' - God turned to see Peter and the girl climbing out of the window. Meanwhile the Devil had moved further into the room and was standing not three feet from the Lord, dwarfing the figure in white.

  'It's time,' he grinned, cracking the joints of those great claws and stifling a yawn, 'to do battle, yes yes, to find out just who is the true Master of all Matter, living and dead.'

  'You are not part of all that lives,' God intoned, swallowing hard.

  'Temper, temper,' the Devil chuckled, 'I live, don't I? Am I not as real as You? And what of my esteemed apostates, worthy sons of Belial? Honourable demons of the Underworld, gorgeous banshees of Lethean? Are they not also part of the great plan?' He started picking at a back tooth with one of his claws.

  'No plan of mine,' God cried.

  'Ah! Point conceded. Your plan excludes, mine allows for everything. Yours is divisive, mine universal. Your Word causes nations to cut each other down through mortal fear, mine leads them through the pits of death fearlessly, without shame.' Rings of smoke appeared about the Devil's nostrils. He paused, as if to gather himself, then continued in an altogether softer, almost feminine manner. 'So who, great Lord of the Heavens, seems to be the true bestower of freedom?'

  The Devil chomped his lips and the mob jeered and narrowed their eyes at the pale figure in white. Raising his arm to quieten them, the Devil continued, 'Ah, but one grows weary of overused sophistries. Come, it is time.' He placed his arm around God's shoulder. 'I will allow You,' the Devil went on, 'the decency of determining the means to the end. Oh, but may I make a suggestion?' He raised his voice theatrically, 'that we hold a head-kicking competition,' then lowered it to a stage whisper, 'a particular favourite of mine I must confess - of which I am the Undisputed Champion. But no matter.' He glanced sportingly behind his back and roared in a voice that might have shattered the windows of the entire village, 'The time has come. The Agon begins! Choose your weapon!'

  The heavens thundered, wild animals howled in the forests, the mob roared - sensing imminent victory - banging their clubs against the side of the shack. Completely alone now, God released Himself from the Devil's clutches and paced the room, His beautifully manicured hands pressed into His forehead. 'Think! Think!' He seemed to be saying. He was trying to remember wise words He'd once written on a cloud as a message and sent down to Earth, many, many years before. But what were they? Something about a pan? A swordfish? In a flash they came to Him, 'The pen is mightier than the sword.' That was it. He turned triumphantly and proclaimed:

  'A poetry competition.'

  The Devil twiddled his eyebrows. What sort of trick was this?

  'Poetry!' the Lord exclaimed in a shrill voice just a shade too optimistic. 'The winning poem should be the original work of the author, must not have been entered for any previous competition... and may rhyme.' Another idea sprung to mind. 'Also, it must be humorous. Yes! Whoever gets the most laughs...' God added hurriedly, astonished at the sheer brilliance of His Being, '...shall be the winner. There.' He cleared His throat. 'This is the weapon I choose.'

  The Devil quietened the rabble with a single raised claw and looked suspiciously at the Lord. Everything fell silent. Poetry? What was the clump up to? Yet as he pondered the effect of a Lordy Sonnet on this unholy rabble, who couldn't understand a simple directive, let alone a romping iambic pentameter, his uncertain frown relaxed into a wide, joint-cracking smile. Yes, he thought, why not?

  'Agreed!' he boomed with undisguised delight, as if his worst dreams had just come true, 'let us begin at once.'

  They took up their positions at opposite ends of the room, each lighting a candle, each looking up into the murky corners for inspiration.

  And so it was that the great battle of words commenced.