Persephone Diverted

By Celia Crotteau

Anticipating a peaceful life after death, an intrepid nun is chagrined when St. Peter refuses her entry at heaven’s gates. Instead, he charges her with returning to earth on a special mission. But before St. Peter can supply explicit instructions, Sr. Martha Louise is unexpectedly transported thirty years into the future, to a post-apocalyptic totalitarian state. She finds religion outlawed and humanity tottering on the brink of extinction, thanks to a mysterious despotic ruler, the Illustrious Innovator, venerated as a demigod. Not only must Sr. Martha Louise convince the Illustrious Innovator of the error of his ways, she also must deal with revolt, famine, plague, and myriad other catastrophes in a world rapidly descending into frenzied chaos. In a first-person account that mixes biting political satire, lighthearted supernatural realism, and grim noire fiction, Sr. Martha Louise relates her management of her unintentionally vague divine mission.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796020083

Celia Crotteau

A Biblical scholar and educator, Celia Crotteau's fascination with women's roles in ancient civilizations has inspired her to imagine how certain Old Testament heroines might have told their own stories. In earlier novels she gave voices to the prophet Hosea's wife Gomer and Ruth's sister Orpah. Now, in her sixth book of historical fiction, she does so with Jephthah's daughter. Celia has also published award winning essays, poetry, short stories, and textbooks and has taught literature, history, and writing to students from sixth grade through college level.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

When Time Mattered Not

W INIFRED SCAMPERED THROUGH first.

Winnie, no!

I dashed after her and so –

It began: the year of our sojourn in the land where dwell the enslaved. You know them as the living. Unbeknownst to them – and you – we in the immediate afterlife regard the living with the smug pity only the newly released hold. And truly the living are enslaved. Enslaved by and in their bodies, that is, those vessels which house souls beauteous and foul. Bodies allow their inhabitants to clomp about and experience the joys and sorrows which God allots to humanity until He calls them to their heavenly home.

He had recently summoned me.

Winifred’s escape, and my failed rescue attempt, occurred soon after I was liberated from my earthly shackles. I was more than ready to die, having attained the venerable age of one hundred six. My body no longer functioned. Worse, my mind was failing. None of my caregivers realized that, when I wept, I mourned the loss of a powerful intellect. There you have it. I, a nun, Sister Martha Louise, a member of the Order of Our Lady of the Perpetual Covenant, secretly practiced the sin of pride.

But, again, none seemed to recognize my transgression. Only my close friend Toki Ota might have had an inkling of why I grieved, and she, who at that stage of her own life practiced an eclectic belief system, would have regarded my vanity as an allowable lapse.

I can hear her calm voice now: Martha Louise, you are only human. Do not castigate yourself for acting as such.

Dearest Toki.

Her I regretted leaving. But I would reunite with others I so missed –

When I arrived, I found Winifred waiting, her stump of a tail thumping like a metronome gone awry. Her muzzle, gray-flecked the last I saw her through the shimmer of unshed tears, once again shone a jet black. I scooped her up and buried my face in the familiar bristly fur that to me felt more soothing than the softest cashmere. Then I set her down to greet those crowding around to welcome me: Papa, Mama, Estelle, Rainart, and, oh, so many more.

I was pleasantly surprised: even many former students showed up.

As those who had preceded me here chattered, I surreptitiously surveyed my surroundings. They were not as magnificent as I had anticipated. A dense white fog reduced the visibility to less than a couple feet in front or to the sides of the narrow, winding trail on which we stood. Well-tended beds of violet and yellow petunias, identical to those Estelle and I had grown in our messier childhood gardens, lined that trail. If I craned my neck, I could discern the outline of a tree, as twisted and bent as the ancient I had been. A branch laden with silvery green leaves swayed in a gentle breeze and seemed to beckon me. I turned away from that ghostly apparition. No, I was going onward. Inward. I had come so far.

The trail itself was brown soil, hard packed by all who had plodded this way.

I felt humbled to follow in their footsteps and bowed my head to whisper a quick prayer of thanks.

The gates lie beyond the crest of the hill, someone, I think it was Rainart, informed me. We linked arms and set out, some souls dancing before us, others straggling behind.

Meanwhile, Winifred raced in tight little circles and nipped at heels. She had abandoned an elderly dog’s stately stiff-legged gait for a pup’s reckless exuberance.

Of course the nips caused no pain, for this was the celestial pathway along which we all traveled to stand before –

All in good time, Martha Louise. First, let’s talk.

He had planted himself in the path’s center, effectively and intentionally blocking my way further up, over, and inside. The excited conversations behind me ceased. I sensed those elated souls who had hurried to welcome me here waver, then evanesce into a nothingness that I, a newcomer, did not comprehend and certainly could not explain.

Nevertheless, their reassuring presences hovered nearby, alert and curious.

Only Winifred remained visible.

She crouched low, belly to the ground, and growled at him, whoever this grim-faced, balding stranger with the bushy white beard and protruding ears was –

Peter, he said curtly. Blushing, he self-consciously reached up to finger the lobes of both ears. Perhaps as a boy he had been teased –

Yes, Andrew mocked me when we were growing up. But no more.

He was watching me intently.

Starting, I realized that he had read my thoughts, that I need not utter a word to embarrass myself.

Now I was the one who reddened.

Saint Peter, a close companion of our Lord, Who appointed the lowly fisherman to build His church –

How to greet such a paragon of virtue –

A paragon of virtue I am not and never was, Peter cut in.

Perhaps noting my uncertainty, Peter’s eyes softened. Simultaneously, his deeply furrowed crow’s feet eased into fine wrinkles that, as I watched, dissolved into smooth olive skin. His beard transformed from white to gray to chestnut brown. Lustrous locks of the same hue sprouted from his bald pate and snaked down his neck to cover the protruding ears.

Peter smiled at my open-mouthed astonishment.

Here, he announced, anything is possible. At any time. What age do you wish to be? Choose. That I can grant.

Twenty-seven! I heard myself pipe. Old enough to have gained some wisdom, young enough to anticipate that wisdom’s practice!

Twenty-seven you are. Peter chuckled. And I have thrown in all the accoutrements.

My gaze followed his, to my hands clasped at my waist. They were those of a young woman. Slowly I held them up and marveled. Relaxed, they unfolded like ivory flowers, their pale skin unblemished. I turned them over and admired how the straight fingers tapered to end in – no! – yes! – arcing three-inch nails painted an iridescent green.

I shrieked and waved my hands in Peter’s face. He flinched and stepped back.

My nails! What happened to my nails?

Peter glanced helplessly over his shoulder as if hoping that someone, anyone, would appear to answer my question. When no being or thing materialized, he turned back and, lifting his jaw and setting his mouth in a straight line, glared at me. I was reminded that this was a man made of stern stuff, else our Lord would not have chosen him as He did –

And I – I had screeched at Peter. At an apostle, one of Jesus Christ’s inner circle.

At my feet, Winifred whined. I bent to pick her up, careful that the unsightly extensions at the ends of my fingers not pierce the delicate skin beneath her wiry coat. Whatever I had done to deserve this humiliation, Winifred should not suffer. With my faithful companion in my arms, I felt emboldened to ask, Why? Then I remembered and added what I hoped sounded properly contrite: Please forgive my show of temper.

Instead of contrite, I sounded obsequious. Ugh. I had always hated sycophants. I prided myself on my direct frankness – no, stop. Once again came that appalling word: pride.

Nonplussed, Peter shook his head and mumbled under his breath. I gathered enough of what he said – my hearing had sharpened dramatically since my arrival – to know he declared that he would never understand women of any era, his own or the one I had just quitted.

When reading the Bible, I had often wondered how his wife had handled and supported this stubborn, occasionally arrogant man to whom the Son of God had entrusted a major mission.

Peter heaved a dramatic sigh. She’s the one who deserved sainthood, he muttered. Then, angrily: And what’s wrong with those nails? I’m no expert on feminine finery, but I thought those nails would assist you as you embark on your – mission. Help you blend in amongst the wicked in a wicked age. He leered and wiggled his eyebrows teasingly. I did not laugh, so he sighed again. Martha, you’re always so serious. Have you no sense of humor? However, you need not apologize. Although, if you didn’t like the nails, why not simply say so? He paused and studied my hands. Better?

The nails of the fingers caressing Winifred were short, rounded, and blessedly unvarnished.

I sniffed, Thank you.

Peter nodded and folded his arms across his chest. Thank you, but what? Speak your mind.

I drew myself up to my full height, which came only to the projecting knobs of his elbows. I shall do exactly that! I took a deep breath. The air, or whatever I inhaled, was balmy yet invigorating, an unlikely combination, but, as I was discovering and Peter had emphasized, in the afterlife anything could occur. I didn’t die, did I? The terrible realization dawned. No, I didn’t! My poor decrepit body is hooked up to all sorts of machinery and I will be forced to return to inhabit it and suffer even more indignities. I shuddered and Winifred whimpered. This is one of those out of body experiences, isn’t it? Frightened, I fought back tears.

Martha, Martha, Peter hastened to assure me, you died.

Then why, I challenged, did you just mention a new mission for me, and I quote, ‘amongst the wicked in a wicked age’? Am I being reincarnated? For what specific sins? Have I not earned my eternal rest? I was so looking forward to it!

I had envisioned singing with actual angels, conversing with Aristotle, Abraham, Abelard, and other greats, and walking barefoot through dewy grass hand in hand with whichever loved one’s company I so desired. You might consider my image simplistic, but all of us have a right to our dreams. Even nuns. No, especially nuns.

Especially nuns? Peter echoed. Why especially nuns? Why not especially apostles? Or apiarists? Butchers? Lexicographers? Used car salesmen?

His narrowed eyes gleamed bright as they met mine.

You’re right, I admitted. I deserve no more than the next soul. Papa always said to remember that I was no less than any other person, but also no better. But I confess: I have occasionally prided – inwardly I cringed at that dreadful word – yes, I have prided myself on my high IQ. Lest he not understand, hailing from an earlier age, I amended for Peter’s benefit, IQ stands for intelligence quotient. It purports to measure a person’s smarts.

I understand, Martha, Peter snapped. We do keep abreast of the current trends where you came from. Basically, you’re telling me that you consider yourself a genius like Einstein, Da Vinci, and some of those other eccentric souls wandering around up here.

Dear me, no! I exclaimed. I don’t rank among their caliber. But I am extremely capable.

I lowered my eyes modestly before glancing sideways to assess Peter’s reaction. He was stroking his bearded chin thoughtfully.

Finally he said, I can’t answer all the questions you ask. Life after death is much more multifaceted than any one religion has grasped. What I can tell you is that your extreme capability is precisely why you’re the right person for this mission. That, and your dogged determination and deep faith. He winked and indicated Winifred with a slight head tilt. Dogged! Get it!

I would not allow my defenseless dear to be the butt of Peter’s standup comedic routine. That he could practice in front of his fellow apostles and any bored archangels he could corral. Anyway, as I reminded him, levity was uncalled for at such a decisive moment. Decisive on my part, that is. Peter seemed to take my willingness, no, my actual acceptance, as a foregone conclusion.

You did take certain vows, he offered as his lame reasoning.

During my earthly existence, I countered. Circumstances have changed. Or haven’t you noticed?

Peter snorted and scratched his full head of hair. Martha, I am merely following orders, which were to persuade you to return for one year of time as people on earth measure it to – Seeing my puzzled expression, he stopped. You’re in a different plane now. Since you died, several thousand years could have passed, or five seconds. Here we don’t worry too much about time. Obviously, you must for your revisit, so arrangements have been made –

As if to remind me, the tip of Winifred’s pink tongue tickled just beneath my lower lip. Which was compressed against my upper, I acknowledge, in a show of willful sullenness.

Not appropriate behavior for a nun, no, but then I had always struggled with obedience. Poverty and chastity, those I had accepted more readily.

And what about Winifred? It will break her heart to be separated from me so soon after our reunion. And my heart also, I added. Because Peter would have divulged my thoughts, I figured that I should simply utter them aloud.

Either form of communication, thinking or speaking, suffices, Peter said primly. As for the dog accompanying you, I suppose –

Frowning, he hesitated.

Another voice chimed in. Chime it did. I had never heard such dulcet tones, and I sensed that they belonged not to a person but a heavenly being. Which angelic choir it was assigned to I knew not, but I appreciated its intervention.

Oh, Peter, relax! Let the doggy go with her. Don’t dither so. The crack’s opening. Unless Martha leaves immediately, she will have lost her opportunity. So – chop chop! And do make certain that both woman and canine are suitably attired. No garish nail polish for the nun, no frou-frou midriff t-shirts for either! Really, Peter!

Smoke spurted from Peter’s ears, actual smoke, and he turned to address whomever had spoken.

I would thank you to – He never finished.

Behind me I heard a loud boom, as if fireworks had exploded close to where we stood. The ground beneath my feet shook and, over my left shoulder, I perceived a pulsing multi-colored light piercing the fog. It reminded me of the disco strobe party lights from the 1970s. (Mind you, I recognize them only from watching certain popular movies on TV. John Travolta, who starred in several, resembled my erstwhile sweetheart Rainart.)

Winifred too saw the light. She barked and squirmed out of my arms. I bent to catch her, but –

I had forgotten the impetuosity of the young, whether human or animal. Before I could stop her, the rejuvenated Winifred darted into the hole of brightness.

Winnie, no!

I sprinted after her.

Martha, wait! You haven’t received your instructions –

The turbulent rush of wind that grabbed and sucked me, behind Winifred, into the yawning radiant maw drowned Peter’s frantic shout.

I caught one last glimpse of him, red-faced, mouth open wide in that cry of consternation, before I was swept beyond his sight. In that instant I did not envy him his position as guardian of the gates.

Nor did I envy my own self. Eventually I would have to deal with Peter. Eventually, but not now, I remember snickering, as Winnie and I hurtled down, down the supernatural vibrating slide.

I also decided that I felt calm and in control and unafraid of whatever would follow. Tried to convince myself that Winifred and I had taken a leap of faith rather than made an undignified exit.

In truth, our departure reminded me of Dorothy and Toto swept up in the monster cyclone or, worse, Alice chasing that addle-brained rabbit down another hole. Unlike the white rabbit, Winifred was no ninny. She was inquisitive. But, like all those literary characters, Winifred and I were bound for realms unknown. Where would we land, and when?

Abruptly the fall changed from smooth and dreamlike to bumpy and too real for my liking. Winifred’s too. She yelped. My teeth chattered, my heart pounded, and my skin seared as if set afire. I realized that I was indeed terrified. Confession made, I released one protracted, shrill scream before I somersaulted, not by choice, mind you, and darkness enveloped me.

I was out cold.

CHAPTER 2

Forward, and Forward, and Forward

F ROM INSIDE MY skull, a groan.

Who’s there?

A gravelly voice penetrating my consciousness demanded, Do I know you? and hesitated before repeating, Who’s there?

Again, the groan. Louder, more pronounced. This time, not from inside my cranium, but outside, like a balloon floating above my forehead and bouncing down to land on it. No, not a balloon, a bowling ball, and it had smacked into my temples. Both at once. Impossible! Two bowling balls then. I tried to laugh but what emerged was the groan, ending in a long, drawn-out Aggghhh.

I identified the groaner: me. But who else was present?

Someone wondered the same.

Please tell me who’s there! How can I help you? The voice, a woman’s, carried an undercurrent of fear.

I forced open heavy-lidded eyes.

Above, in a cloudless blue sky, two lumps of coal soared side by side. When I blinked, they coalesced into an ungainly black bird that flapped its widespread wings and disappeared beyond my peripheral vision.

I dared not turn to follow the bird’s progress, else my eggshell of a skull shatter. Dizzy, nauseated, I closed my eyes again.

A bitter odor reminded me of overripe cheese. Of something else as well, though I cared not to explore that thought. Or any other. The pain was excruciating.

A heavy heat burned my upturned face.

Beside me, panting: Winifred!

I whispered her name and was rewarded with a reassuring lick. But her dry tongue scratched like sandpaper. Water. She needed water.

Wawa! I managed to wail.

All right, all right, said the unknown woman. She fumbled an arm behind my shoulders and, lifting me a few inches, held a container to my lips. I slurped and dribbled lukewarm water. Swallowed and choked as I urged, Pwease! Herrr!

You mean the creature that brushed against me just now? I mistook it for a begging squirrel. They’ve become quite bold, understand, given all the people who come to visit their loved ones and picnic here.

No skirl. Dog.

Very well, came the brisk reply. A drink your dog shall have.

Water sloshed inside a container as Winifred gulped her fill. Relieved, I surrendered to the inexorable slow pull back into oblivion. Was death reclaiming me? Dragging me down, down – no, in this instance, up, up? I could not stifle a weak giggle before composing my soul, my mind, my self. Gladly, gladly would I comply.

Not so fast, Martha, chided yet another unknown female voice, this one as alluring as the velvety blackness which promised such peace. You boomeranged back into the vibrancy of life and already you want to leave? Tut-tut! Your premature arrival disrupted certain plans. Fortunately, I was able to accommodate your change in schedule. But, if I may ask, why the rearranged itinerary?

Winnie! I gasped. Don’t be angry with her. She didn’t mean any harm. Whence this sudden effortless communication? Previously I had struggled to form words, let alone spit them out.

You’re trying to return to the spirit world, this new unknown voice answered. Once they glimpse it, few care to go back to earthly life. You did, albeit reluctantly, after Peter’s awkward sales pitch. So your pooch took matters into her own paws, did she? No matter. Animals are smarter than most people. She may have sensed what others did not. Anyway, she’s now back on earth ready and willing to play her part in your shared mission. Would you leave her here alone, Martha?

No, never!

I guessed as much, the voice soothed. Its owner whispered in one ear, then the other, her presence a soft blanket covering me.

Who are you?

Look, but do not fear what you see. I mean you no harm.

As ordered, I looked. A skull loomed inches from my face, a skull wearing dark red lipstick where lips no longer were, so that the three yellowed teeth clinging tenaciously to the upper jawbone looked rust stained. Streaks of pink cream applied like finger paint slanted under the nasal cavity, up smooth ivory bone beneath and then beside empty eye sockets, stopping abruptly below the ear holes. A navy blue baseball cap completed the bizarre apparition, the cap’s brim turned backward, its bill settling against the diminutive shelves that formed the uppermost cervical vertebrae. Those vertebrae continued downward and branched into the expected appendages, but I was too busy studying the facial bones and their décor to do more than realize that a flowing gold lamé caftan covered the skeleton from her collarbone down.

Consider lightening your makeup application, I heard myself say dreamily. You don’t want to overwhelm your delicate features. Less is more, especially for rouge or blush, as it’s now called.

The skull regarded me soberly. You think so?

I do.

I’ve never encountered that reaction before. Usually I’m the one dispensing advice. After reassurance, that is.

Who are you?

She thought for a moment. Let’s make this simple. For the next twelve months, until you return to haggle with Peter at the gates, I will serve as your guide. Mentor. Counselor. Confidante. Apply any label you like so long as it’s positive.

But aren’t you death?

She harrumphed, a noise which, when forced through unlined cranial orifices, emerged more as a whistle than a grunt of derision.

Winifred’s ears pricked up.

Don’t limit me so! As death, am I not part of life? I’m more than suffering and sickness, weeping and wailing. I’m also carefree chaos, the serenity of solitude, creativity’s drive, regrets at risks not taken, the intensity of first love, its sweetness, and, yes, its pain, and much, much more. I’m the tattered, one-eyed, beloved teddy bear a child sleeps with, the roar of the ocean in a souvenir conch shell, the lavender scent a grandmother dabs on her wrinkled neck, the satisfying crunch of hard shell tacos, the leap of letters off the pages of a book to form words. I’m beatings and stabbings, honorary degrees and first place wins. I’m part of the end, yes, but also the beginning and all in between. I escort you humans throughout your lives. I’m always present, yet few care to acknowledge me. I – whew! I’m winded. Most interrupt before I reach this point in my prepared speech. Do you understand, Martha?

Yes, I think you’ve made your point, I replied.

Evidently Winifred agreed. She emitted a doggy moan before stretching out her full length and resting her nose on her front paws.

I take it, I said to the skull, that you will accompany me on my mission, whatever it proves to be?

We’ve met already, Martha. You won’t need to be reminded of my existence. But, yes, I’ll pop up every now and then to offer my perspective.