The Country of the Blind

The angel opened the book and read a name.  It was a name full of A’s, and the echoes of it came back out of the uttermost parts of space.  I did not catch it clearly, because the little man beside me said, in a sharp jerk, “What’s that?” It sounded like “Ahab” to me; but it could not have been the Ahab of Scripture.

Instantly a small black figure was lifted up to a puffy cloud at the very feet of God.  It was a stiff little figure, dressed in rich outlandish robes and crowned, and it folded its arms and scowled.

“Well?” said God, looking down at him.

We were privileged to hear the reply, and indeed the acoustic properties of the place were marvellous.

“I plead guilty,” said the little figure.

“Tell them what you have done,” said the Lord God.

“I was a king,” said the little figure, “a great king, and I was lustful and proud and cruel.  I made wars, I devastated countries, I built palaces, and the mortar was the blood of men.  Hear, O God, the witnesses against me, calling to you for vengeance.  Hundreds and thousands of witnesses.”  He waved his hands towards us.  “And worse!  I took a prophet—­one of your prophets——­”

“One of my prophets,” said the Lord God.

“And because he would not bow to me, I tortured him for four days and nights, and in the end he died.  I did more, O God, I blasphemed.  I robbed you of your honours——­”

“Robbed me of my honours,” said the Lord God.

“I caused myself to be worshipped in your stead.  No evil was there but I practised it; no cruelty wherewith I did not stain my soul.  And at last you smote me, O God!”

God raised his eyebrows slightly.

“And I was slain in battle.  And so I stand before you, meet for your nethermost Hell!  Out of your greatness daring no lies, daring no pleas, but telling the truth of my iniquities before all mankind.”

He ceased.  His face I saw distinctly, and it seemed to me white and terrible and proud and strangely noble.  I thought of Milton’s Satan.

“Most of that is from the Obelisk,” said the Recording Angel, finger on page.

“It is,” said the Tyrannous Man, with a faint touch of surprise.

Then suddenly God bent forward and took this man in his hand, and held him up on his palm as if to see him better.  He was just a little dark stroke in the middle of God’s palm.

“Did he do all this?” said the Lord God.

The Recording Angel flattened his book with his hand.

“In a way,” said the Recording Angel, carelessly.  Now when I looked again at the little man his face had changed in a very curious manner.  He was looking at the Recording Angel with a strange apprehension in his eyes, and one hand fluttered to his mouth.  Just the movement of a muscle or so, and all that dignity of defiance was gone.

“Read,” said the Lord God.

And the angel read, explaining very carefully and fully all the wickedness of the Wicked Man.  It was quite an intellectual treat.—­A little “daring” in places, I thought, but of course Heaven has its privileges…