By Kuiper Belt Correspondent
25th October, 2017
With nothing of interest happening in the World Cup eight months from now, I have decided to return to last October, when the Orcs – let us call them that, for they are violent and invasive, pig faced and rapacious – decided to relocate their local base of operations from the Oort Cloud back into our Solar System. This being an egregious break in diplomacy from the perspective of the local (let us say) Elven rulers, who were relayed the knowledge via their Gnomes – often mistaken for and called Jews – those who handle the day to day running of Solar System affairs for them, events began to grind steadily and inexorably towards a state of war.
Almost every habitable system in this Galaxy is owned in one form or another by either the Orcs or the Elves, who are constantly meddling in the affairs of one another, and fighting proxy wars via their servant races. They have not been permitted to directly fight one another since their last war ended, which impinged somehow upon the relaxation of the Elder Races, at which time the conflict was abruptly ended by a cataclysmic strike which simultaneously wiped out the home systems of both protagonists.
The Elder Races have been known individually or as a small collective to move to an extinguished sun, and it is known that they dwell in great numbers within several Black Holes. Many of the most powerful entities of the Elder Races keep expansive residences in the nether space between systems, and of course the most famous place where they abide is the Galactic Centre.
A ruling conclave of the Elder Races at GC considers all the actions of consequence made within our galaxy, and issues its directives as it sees fit. Primarily the recipients of these promulgations are the Orcs and Elves, who both keep embassies not far from Sagittarius A, where their most able diplomats are constantly pleading for favour.
The Elder Races of the Milky Way Galaxy take many forms, and those that Humans have seen are perhaps best understood as the gods. Their retinues are closer in form and disposition to the Undead though, except for a few odd cases. Such as my master, God, who prefers things which are alive and full of light, and thus is something of an eccentric amongst his race.
Of all beings within or close by this solar system he is by far the greatest, as might be expected from our Creator and guiding Destiny, or so he often boasted to me over the course of the eighty years or so that I knew him intimately as his Major Domus, before he returned home on business to the Galactic Centre.
In the last nineteen years his residence has degraded somewhat, and during his absence the Orcs have flouted his authority by inches. Within the last turning of the world they have established what is ostensibly a “””scientific mission””” upon the dwarf planet Pluto.
Having seen the Orcs move within the Heliosphere of Sol, the star which God weaved together from the dross of another calamity many billions of years ago, the Elves then began to fire up their trans-dimensional gates within our solar system. Both immediately came to the court of my master, that place in the Interstellar Medium where he has established Paradises for his followers, and they have both since made themselves semi-permanent embassies in the palace courtyard, awaiting his return.
Unlike those whose blessed Souls are instantly drawn to the residence of God across the void and given flesh again, the Orcs arrived in their ships, and the Elves came by their gates, but the speed at which they travel is so incredibly fast that both turned up in the course of a single day. Days in Paradise are of the same duration as those on earth, in case you were wondering.
You probably want to know what will happen to you when you die. I don’t know, because I haven’t died properly for almost four and a half thousand years of linear time, or almost nine thousand years if you include the many small loops which I have relived.
My Soul on countless occasions has been harvested by the Sun, the crucible from which all Life is drawn, and to which it must return until the Final Death. Unless of course you are from an alien System, or your Soul is marked by some force greater than the Sun, such as God, or by some entity which is powerful enough to collect souls and draw them away.
The truth is that God has very little interest in what happens in this Solar System any more, and has shown increasing displeasure in Humanity, who are a pack of noisy reprobates, but he still effortlessly gathers up a multitude of Christian souls for the Afterlife even in his absence, and these fellows are almost numberless in the realms he made for them in his home dimension.
It was at the Wesleyan Seminary in New York in 1846 that I first encountered God, who was then wandering the Earth in his Christ persona, at Genesee in Lima. I have not exerted myself enough in aeons to wade back more than a few months, and barely ever go back farther than the late 20th century any more, but I still remember that one day better than most others.
The problem with time travel is that you remember nothing of the journey back, which seems instantaneous, but going forwards once again time marches only at its regular pace. You are permitted to change nothing, and remembering each death and rebirth can be quite painful, if you are one of Us. The single lifer cannot relive his life, nor can the man with no name of consequence think back farther than his emergence from the Crucible.
Few have any connection to a past life, and most will either attain Paradise or find themselves part of the amorphous burning mass of nascent Life before their most basic essence is lost within the Forge of Souls. Destiny is harsh and it will not often be denied.
The second time that I saw Christ we were both in Oregon County, three years later. He was standing beside a waterfall, talking to some Elves. This was not the first time I had seen Elves, who once taught me a small fraction of their strong magic when they were interfering in the affairs of my Babylonian kingdom a very long time ago, but it was the first time that I had ever seen them acting in a deferential fashion towards what I still considered to be a man, before I came to truly know him as my Master.
It was just before 1850 that I left the Seminary in Lima, before it moved to Syracuse, and the visitor that I had met there was no longer dressed in a neat suit, but in Rider’s clothes. Well over six foot and somewhat gangly, and no longer with the fulsome beard of a London Marxist but clean shaven, it was nonetheless indisputably the same man, wearing the same hat and clutching the same Bible.
He towered over three pale Elves, who listened so intently as he talked at them that I was able to get quite close without attracting their attention. I think his horse noticed me briefly, a handsome white mare which was more interested in grazing. It fossicked slowly through the low shrubs for tasty grasses, and was not even tethered.
The handsome but somewhat emaciated swarthy foreign looking man in the Rider’s Cloak spoke loud and clear in excellent English, with a cultivated New York accent. His voice was immediately familiar, despite only ever hearing it once before, but the words as he was using them would make little sense to you.
I had dropped my axe as soon as I recognised the Elves for what they were, but as soon as I recognised the man as that same itinerant preacher that I had spent an evening walking with in 1846, I was overcome by a nauseating wave of Deja Vu. This was terrifying for several reasons, the most obvious of which is that the spell I was focusing upon casting if the Elves turned against me was instantly lost, and I was rendered quite defenceless.
I fell down trembling to the green earth, and crawled as stealthily as I could into the shadow of a giant fallen tree, hoping that I had not been observed. It was still day, which was a good thing, as the vision of Elves by Moonlight and their ability to hide in shadows makes them twice as dangerous at night.
Deja Vu is a most unpleasant sensation for the seasoned Time Traveller, if those of us who go back and relive time might be called such. Even when in no apparent danger, the gut wrenching incongruity and intense feeling of harrowing terror this causes Us has been known to cause psychotic break. I ought not to have gotten this feeling at all though. It was the close sight of the man that caused it, but surely I would have felt it the first time we met if this were going to be the case. Ordinarily it is thought to be the Proximity of another traveller that causes it.
I was so perplexed that I could not even focus enough to draw a simple spell in my mind’s eye, so I took a shot from the hip flask of whiskey that I carry to steady my nerves. As I considered these things, all I could hear was the sound of my heart race.
Then just as quickly as it came the moment of dissonance passed, and I turned about and peered up over the deep green mossy bark of my temporary shelter. They were gone, both Elves and Man, and I slumped back down into the shadow of the fallen tree, ruining my outfit just a little more, to finish off the contents of my flask.
It was 1915 by the time I saw my Lord again, and I had gone into the Crucible of the Sun and managed to return again with my Name intact, the name of my Soul, one more time. This name might mean something to you, but it is better that you don’t know who I am, lest out of jealousy one of you damage my monuments, or seek to diminish my fame. For all of us who know how to survive the River Test must be careful to guard the touchstones that guide us back again.
I was no longer in the Holy Club, but once again a Methodist, although the religion meant something entirely different to me than it had in my previous existence. Once again as I grew older and my memories filled in I gravitated towards my ancient route and mission, but this time much earlier. The Puritanism of Wesley and Whitefield that had interested me for the last century no longer fitted me so well, and I became a radical free thinking 20th century man.
Attending a Methodist college where young men learned that daily and hourly devotion to Christ alone in thought, word, and deed is the cornerstone of a fulfilling life, I was surprised but not entirely shocked to find Jesus at a Grocery store in Texas, where he was reading the newspaper at the counter, and dressed in an old military uniform.
Full disclosure: [Kuiper Belt Correspondent]’s IRL name is [Paperback Writer]. I’m an [unpublished author] who’s keen on [time travel] and [fuck novelists all your shit is boring].