“Don’t be stupid. I’m talking about the egg part. Have you even seen a baby lion?” She cracked open the egg and let the tiny bundle of fur roll out into her hand. “Look! It’s adorable! All fuzzy-wuzzy!” She leaned closer. “Yes, who’s fuzzy-wuzzy—is it you? Is it you, little lion? Are you my widdle cutie-wootie?” She stroked the tiny cat’s belly until it wriggled and purred.
“Miss Sophia, I hardly think...”
“Cute little furry guys like this shouldn’t hatch out of eggs. Eggs are icky. They’re for lizards and snakes and bugs and gross things like that. Which reminds me, all the bugs and spiders and snakes are going to live in holes and under rocks now. Because they’re gross.”
Gabriel was now wondering whether God would accept his transfer request if he pretended he had suddenly become allergic to Earth.
“So all the fuzzy ones are going to be born without using eggs?” asked Metatron, who seemed to be trying to keep up with this nonsense, and was in fact making a note.
“Yeah.” She lifted up a very strange creature Gabriel had never seen before, an unlikely mix. “Maybe this one could keep using eggs because he’s part bird. See, I put a duck’s bill on a beaver! I call it a platypus!”
“How do you spell that?” asked Metatron, still making notes.
“But if the furry ones can’t have eggs,” Gabriel asked, “then how will they be born? Just...fall out of the sky or something?” The archangel paled and looked upward. “I didn’t mean that...”
“I don’t care.” Sophia dismissed the problem with a wave of her little hand. “You think of something. Because now I need to fix something else. It’s super important.”
She beckoned for the angels to follow her, which they did. The Garden really was extremely green now, Gabriel couldn’t help noticing, and the new splashing noise of the stream gave it a peaceful air in the late-afternoon sun. For a few seconds he found himself wondering if maybe one or two of the child’s suggestions might not be acceptable, as long as nobody examined the whole thing too carefully. All the different-colored birds were impossibly garish, of course, and she seemed to have gone out of her way to daub the butterflies with shades never imagined on any angelic drawing-board, but still, as long as she didn’t mess about with any of the Lord’s favorite creations...
“That,” she said, stopping and pointing. “That has got to go.”
Gabriel suddenly went queasy. “You mean...?”
“Yes, that stupid hairless monkey-thing. It’s ugly and it’s stupid and it smells.”
It was Adam, of course, the apple of the Lord’s eye, the only one of the new creatures made more or less in God’s own image.
“But...what’s wrong with it, Miss Sophia?” Gabriel didn’t really want to know, since it was bound to upset him, but he was desperate to stall her. “Your father was very, very specific about wanting...”
“Well, look at it.”
“That’s exactly what he’s supposed to do. He’s supposed to have dominion over the beasts of the earth, and use them to feed himself,” Gabriel said.
Adam heard them talking and looked up from where he had been repeatedly spearing a tomato, and waved. “Hi, Gabe! Hi, Metty! What’s up?”
“Well, for one thing, he’s totally stupid,” said Sophia, not hiding the scorn. “He just goes around spearing everything. He’s been killing that tomato for about ten minutes and there’s nothing left of it to eat. He needs someone to tell him how to know which things to stab and which things to harvest. Someone like me.”
Gabriel drew himself to his full angelic height. A line had to be drawn. “I feel quite sure that your father is not going to let you follow His favorite creation around and give him orders all day...”
“Okay, fine, fine. Sheesh.” Sophia rolled her eyes. She watched as Adam climbed a tall tree and began enthusiastically spearing a beehive. A moment later, surrounded now by irritated bees, he began to screech and wave his arms, then fell off the branch and plummeted to the ground. “Look, part of him popped out,” the girl said, interested. “That’s gross...but also kind of cool.”
Gabriel sighed. “Go fix him back up, will you, Metatron? I admit it would be nice if he’d quit doing things like that.”
“I’ve got a better idea.” The girl hurried over, and before Gabriel or Metatron could stop her, she had lifted up the curve of shining bone that had popped out of Adam when he hit the ground. She examined it thoughtfully, then set it back on the ground. After a momentary shimmer of light, the rib was gone and in its place lay another fully formed Adam creature. This one, though, had subtle differences.
“What is that supposed to be?” Gabriel demanded. “It’s lumpy. And it hasn’t got a nozzle!”
“It’s a more sophisticated design,” said the girl. “You won’t see this one always tripping and hitting himself in the plums like the old one. In fact, I don’t even want to call it ‘him.’ It’s named ‘Eve,’ and it’s a ‘her.’
Gabriel was considering an immediate transfer. Somebody must be mortaring up the walls of Hell, and that suddenly sounded like a very comfortable, safe job compared to his current occupation.
“I don’t get it,” said Metatron. “Why do we need a second one? Won’t they fight?”
Sophia stuck her tongue out at him. “You’re just grumpy ’cause mine is better. They’ll get along fine. They can make babies together, like the animals do.”
“We already took care of that! He’s full of eggs!”
“Eeewww!” Sophia shook her head in disgust. “No. Do something different. They can make babies some other way.”
“But what...?”
“I don’t care. Just take care of it.” She looked around in satisfaction, but when she turned her eyes to the sky, reddened now with light of the setting sun, her expression soured. “I just thought of one more thing that’s really dumb that I have to fix.”
Gabriel fought down panic. God was going to have a screaming fit about the lumpy new Adam. What now? “Honestly, Sophia— Miss—it’s getting late. I mean, it’s going to be dark soon, so maybe you should...”
“That’s what I’m talking about. Watch.” She pointed to the sky.
“I don’t see anything.” Gabriel turned helplessly to Metatron. “Do you see anything?”
“Sssshhh. Just watch.” She waited as the sun disappeared behind the west end of the Garden.
“I forgot to tell you,” Metatron whispered. “She got rid of one of the directions...”
“What? You mean there’s only four now?” Gabriel gasped. “We’re going to have to redo all the winds and everything...!”
“Now look,” said Sophia. “Don’t you see?”
Gabriel looked up at the sky. With the disappearance of the sun, the stars sparkled against the dark sky like jewels. “See what? It’s lovely. Your father said that was some of our best work...”
“It’s boring. And it’s really dumb, too. I mean, you’ve got the sun up there all day long when everything’s already perfectly bright, but as soon as it gets dark and you really need it, boom, the sun goes away! How stupid is that?”
“But...but that was always your father’s plan...”
“No, see, what you need is a nice bright sun for the nighttime, too.” She clearly was not going to accept disagreement. “I’m going to make one.”
“No!” As soon as he saw Sophia’s expression, Gabriel immediately realized he should have spoken more courteously—after all, what if God’s daughter decided the universe didn’t need archangels, either? “I mean, yes! Grand idea! But if it’s sunny all the time...”—he cast about for an excuse—“then...then the cute, furry, iddy-widdy bunnies and kitties won’t get any sleep. Yes. Because the light will keep them awake.”
“Kitties will sleep in the daytime,” she said, scowling.
“Okay, but bunnies! They love to sleep! And just think of all the fish up in the trees getting sunburned...”
Metatron leaned toward him. “They’re in the water now, sir, rem
ember?” said the junior angel, sotto voce.
“...I mean the birds, yes, the birds, high up in the trees. If the sun’s out all day, the cute colorful little birdie-wirdies will all get sunburned and they’ll be so sad!”
Sophia gave him a withering look. “‘Birdie-wirdies’? My dad must really like you, to let you keep this job.” She shook her head. “Okay, then not a regular sun. Just a little one that doesn’t shine so bright.”
And before Gabriel could invent another excuse, she raised her hands and suddenly a vast, ivory disk hung in the night sky. As Sophia stood admiring it, several unsuspecting birds and even a butterfly or two banged into it, leaving pockmarks on the pearly surface.
“Stupid birds,” she said. “Guess I’ll have to put it up higher,”
The first day of the new week had already come once before, but this time it had a name—Monday. The Lord God showed up in the morning with His coffee in a travel-cup, looking relaxed and fit.
“Good to be back, good to be back,” He said. “Ready to get to work, boys. Still have to figure out how Adam is going to lay those eggs—I mean, anyway that we do it, it’s going to look funny...”
“Uh, now that you mention it, Lord,” said Gabriel, “we wanted to talk to You about that and...and some other things. See, a few changes got made yesterday, while You were gone. Your daughter came and rearranged a few things.”
“My who?”
“Your daughter, sir. Your daughter Sophia.”
God lifted one of His great, bushy brows. “Daughter. Sophia. Mine, you say? But I don’t have a daughter.”
Gabriel was suddenly grateful that God had not seen fit to give the archangel a nozzle like Adam’s, because Gabriel felt certain he would have wet himself. “You...you don’t? But she said she was Your daughter.”
“Impossible. I mean, really, Gabriel, where would I come up with a kid? Just...I don’t know, impregnate a virgin human or something?” He frowned. “Which would mean Adam, since he’s the only one, and he’s not really my idea of...” The Lord God trailed off, staring at the Garden. “What’s going on down there? Why are there two Adams?”
Gabriel swallowed. “I’ll go get Metatron. He was in charge of the whole thing.”
His master was barely listening. “And what’s with the trees? Why is it so Me-blessed green?”
When Metatron arrived he quickly realized that Gabriel was planning to throw him under the celestial chariot. To his credit, he did not attempt to return the favor. “But Lord, she was here,” he said. “She told us she was Your daughter and that her name was Sophia. Why would we make that up?”
God frowned. “Well, in a few billion years Sophia is going to mean ‘wisdom’—so maybe you’re telling the truth at that.”
“We are, Lord. We really are,” said Metatron.
“I don’t understand,” Gabriel said. “What do you mean, her name’s going to mean ‘wisdom’?”
“Simple. I was sleeping most of the day yesterday—all that parting the darkness from the face of the waters and whatnot turns out to be surprisingly tiring—and suddenly she just...shows up here. Holy Wisdom. I suspect she was a part of Me.”
“Wow.” Gabriel had heard his boss say some weird things, but this was right up there. “That’s deep, Lord. Part of you? You really think so?”
“Maybe.” God set His coffee down. “Can’t be positive, of course—My ways are mysterious, right?”
“They sure are, Lord,” said Metatron.
“They sure are.” God laughed and clapped the junior angel on the back, which set a few feathers flying. “So let’s forget about all this for now and get back to work, guys—maybe see if we can get that whole ozone-layer thing cracked before we break for lunch. What do you say?”
“You’re the boss,” said Gabriel.
“Yes, for My sins, I am.” God laughed.
Gabriel hoped He’d still be in a good mood after He saw His first platypus.
A Stark and Wormy Knight
“Mam! Mam!” squeed Alexandrax from the damps of his straw-stooned nesty. “Us can’t sleep! Tail us a tell of Ye Elder Days!” “Child, stop that howlering or you’ll be the deaf of me,” scowled his scaly forebearer. “Count sheeps and go to sleep!”
“Been counting shepherds instead, have us,” her eggling rejoined. “But too too toothsome they each look. Us are hungry, Mam.”
“Hungry? Told you not to swallow that farm tot so swift. A soiled and feisity little thing it was, but would you stop to chew carefulish? Oh, no, no. You’re not hungry, child, you’ve simpledy gobbled too fast and dazzled your eatpipes. Be grateful that you’ve only got one head to sleepify, unbelike some of your knobful ancestors, and go back and shove yourself snorewise.”
“But us can’t sleep, Mam. Us feels all grizzled in the gut and wiggly in the wings. Preach us some storying, pleases—something sightful but sleepable. Back from the days when there were long dark knights!”
“Knights, knights—you’ll scare yourself sleepless with such! No knights there are anymore—just wicked little winglings who will not wooze when they should.”
“Just one short storying, Mam! Tale us somewhat of Great-Grandpap, the one that were named Alexandrax just like us! He were alive in the bad old days of bad old knights.”
“Yes, that he was, but far too sensible and caveproud to go truckling with such clanking mostrositors—although, hist, my dragonlet, my eggling, it’s true there was one time...”
“Tell! Tell!”
His Mam sighed a sparking sigh. “Right, then, but curl yourself tight and orouborate that tail, my lad—that’ll keep you quelled and quiet whilst I storify.
“Well, as often I’ve told with pride, your Great-Grandpap were known far-flown and wide-spanned for his good sense. Not for him the errors of others, especkledy not the promiscuous plucking of princesses, since your Great-Grandy reckoned full well how likely that was to draw some clumbering, lanking knight in a shiny suit with a fist filled of sharp steel wormsbane.
“Oh, those were frightsome days, with knights lurking beneath every scone and round every bent, ready to spring out and spear some mother’s son for scarce no cause at all! So did your wisdominical Great-Grandpap confine himself to plowhards and peasant girls and the plumpcasional parish priest tumbled down drunk in the churchyard of a Sunday evening, shagged out from ’cessive sermonizing. Princesses and such got noticed, do you see, but the primate proletariat were held cheap in those days—a dozen or so could be harvested in one area before a dragon had to wing on to pastors new. And your Grand-Greatpap, he knew that. Made no mistakes, did he—could tell an overdressed merchant missus from a true damager duchess even by the shallowest starlight, plucked the former but shunned the latter every time. Still, like all of us he wondered what it was that made a human princess so very tasty and tractive. Why did they need to be so punishingly, paladinishly protected? Was it the creaminess of their savor or the crispiness of their crunch? Perhaps they bore the ‘bookwet,’ as those fancy French wyverns has it, of flowery flavors to which no peat-smoked peasant could ever respire? Or were it something entire different, he pondered, inexplicable except by the truthiest dint of personal mastication?
“Still, even in these moments of weakness your Grandpap’s Pap knew that he were happily protected from his own greeding nature by the scarcity of princessly portions, owing to their all being firmly pantried in castles and other stony such. He was free to specklate, because foolish, droolish chance would never come to a cautious fellow like him.
“Ah, but he should have quashed all that quandering, my little lizarding, ’stead of letting it simmer in his brain-boiler, because there came a day when Luck and Lust met and bred and brooded a litter named Lamentable.
“That is to say, your Pap’s Grandpap stumbled on an unsupervised princess.
“This royal hairless was a bony and brainless thing, it goes without saying, and overfond of her clear complexion, which was her downfalling (although the actual was more of an up
lifting, as you’ll see). It was her witless wont at night to sneak out of her bed betimes and wiggle her skinny shanks out the window, then ascend to the roof of the castle to moonbathe, which this princess was convinced was the secret of smoothering skin. (Which it may well have been, but who in the name of Clawed Almighty wants smoothered skin? No wonder that humans have grown so scarce these days—they wanted wit.)
“In any case, on this particularly odd even she had just stretched herself out there in her nightgown to indulge this lunar tic when your Great-Grandpap happened to flap by overhead, on his way back from a failed attempt at tavernkeeper tartare in a nearby town. He took one look at this princess stretched out like the toothsomest treat on a butcher’s table and his better sense deskirted him. He swooped scoopishly down and snatched her up, then wung his way back toward his cavern home, already menu-rizing a stuffing of baker’s crumbs and coddle of toddler as side dish when the princess suddenfully managed to get a leg free and, in the midst of her struggling and unladylike cursing, kicked your Great-Grandpap directedly in the vent as hard as she could, causing him unhappiness (and almost unhemipenes). Yes, dragons had such things even way back then, foolish fledgling. No, your Great-Grandpap’s wasn’t pranged for permanent—where do you think your Grandpap came from?
“In any case, so shocked and hemipained was he by this attack on his ventral sanctity that he dropped the foolish princess most sudden and vertical—one hundred sky-fathoms or more, into a grove of pine trees, which left her rather careworn. Also fairly conclusively dead.
“Still, even cold princess seemed toothsome to your Great-Grandpap, though, so he gathered her up and went on home to his cavern. He was lone and batchelorn in those days—your Great-Grandmammy still in his distinct future—so there was none to greet him there and none to share with, which was how he liked it, selfish old mizard that he was even in those dewy-clawed days. He had just settled in, ’ceedingly slobberful at the teeth and tongue and about to have his first princesstual bite ever, when your Grandpap’s Pap heard a most fearsomeful clatternacious clanking and baying outside his door. Then someone called the following in a rumbling voice that made your G-G’s already bruised ventrality try to shrink up further into his interior.