Mister B. Gone

Will

Do.

Don't for a minute believe I won't.

I brought you this far so you could see for yourself how I gave up every last particle of hope I ever had, and became the antithesis of all things that turn their faces to the good and the light; all things, as you would probably say it in your idiot way, that are holy.

I brought you this far so you could see how that part of me that had wanted to love — no, that had loved — was murdered in a butcher's shop in Mainz, and how I saw what I really was, once it was gone. What I really am.

Don't doubt that voice in you that speaks in terrors. It knows the truth. If you want to keep me from coming one step closer to you, don't even think about turning another page. Do what you know you should do.

Burn this book.

Go on.

BURN THE DAMN BOOK!

* * *

What's wrong with you? Do you want to die? Is that it? Is death the answer? Then what's the question, monkey? Is the news so bad today you can't imagine getting up tomorrow? I can understand that. All of us are clinging to this dog-eared planet as it falls into the dark behind the shelves. I understand. Better than you give me credit for, probably. I understand. You would like to live without the shadow falling, always falling; without the darkness creeping up on you just when you think everything's going well.

You want happiness.

Of course, you do. Of course. And you deserve it.

So…

Don't let anybody know I'm telling you this, because I'm not supposed to. But we've come so far together, haven't we, and I know how painful it's been for you, how much you've suffered. I've seen it on your face, in your eyes, in the way your mouth turns down at the corners when you're reading me.

Suppose I could make that better. Suppose I could promise you a long, painless life in a house on a high hill, with one great big tree beside it? The house is a thousand years old, at least, and when the wind comes up out of the south, smelling of oranges, the tree churns like a vast green thunderhead, except there is no lightning out of it, only blossoms.

Suppose I could tell you where the keys to that house are waiting, along with all the paperwork of course, just waiting for your signature? I can. I can tell you.

And as I said, you deserve it. You do, truly. You've suffered enough. You've seen others hurt, and you've been hurt yourself. A deep hurt, so don't punish yourself for picking up a book that was half-crazy.

That was just me testing you a little bit. You can understand that, I'm sure. When the prize is a life without pain, lived in a house the angels envy, I had to be careful about my choice. I couldn't give it to just anybody.

But you — oh you're perfect. The house is going to open its arms to you and you're going to think: that Mister B. wasn't such a godless thing after all. All right, he made me jump through a few hoops and had me burn that little book, but what does any of that matter now? I live in a house the angels envy.

Did I tell you that already? I did, didn't I? I'm sorry. I get a little carried away when I talk about the house. There are no words to explain the beauty of the place. You'll be safe there, even from God. Think of that. Safe even from God, who is cruel, just as we would all be cruel if we were Gods, and had no fear of death or judgment.

In that house you're immune from Him. There is no voice speaking in your head; there are no Commandments; no bushes burning but unconsumed outside the window. In that house there is only you and your loved ones, living lives without hurt. All for a very reasonable price. A flame. A tiny flame that will burn these pages away forever.

And isn't that the way you'll want it, anyway, when you're living in the house on the hill? You won't want this dirty old book that threatened and terrorized you. It's better gone and gone forever. Why be reminded?

The house is yours. I swear on the wings of the Morningstar.

Yours. All you have to do is burn these words — and me with them — so we are never again seen on the face of the earth.

* * *

I can't decide whether you're suicidal, mentally deficient, or both? I've warned you how close I am. You don't truly want my knife at your neck, do you? You want to live. Surely.

Take the house on the hill, and be happy there. Forget you ever heard the name of Jakabok Botch. Forget I ever told you my story and —

Oh.

My story. Is that what this is about? The shadow of my pitiful life, flickering on the cave of your skull? Do you ache so much to know how I got from a butcher's shop in Mainz to the words you're reading now that you'd give up the house on the hill, and its churning tree, and a life without pain that even the angels —

Ah, why do I bother?

I offer you a piece of Heaven on earth, a life that most people would give their souls to own, and all you do is keep reading the words and turning the pages, reading the words and turning the pages.

You sicken me. You're stupid, selfish, ungrateful scum. All right, read the damn words! Go on. Turn the pages and see where it gets you. It won't be a house on a hill, I'll tell you that. It'll be a plain wooden box in a hole in the ground, covered with dirt. Is that what you want? Is it? Because you'd better understand, once I take this deal off the table, I won't ever talk about it again.

This house is a once-in-a-lifetime, never-to-be-repeated offer, you understand me? Of course you do. Why do I keep asking that, as if there was a single thing I've said or done that you haven't understood to the last little syllable. So, do you want it, or not? Make up your mind. My supply of patience is running perilously thin. It can't fall any further. You hear me?

The house is waiting. Three more words and it's gone.

Don't.

Read.

Them.

You know what? I can see the house from here. My Lord, the wind's strong today. The leaves on the tree are churning, just the way I said they did. But the gusts are so very strong. I never felt a wind quite like this before. The tree isn't just creaking, it's breaking. I can't believe it. After all these years. All the storms. All the snow, weighing down its branches. But it's had enough. Its roots are being torn up out of the ground. Oh, for pity's sake, why doesn't somebody do something before it hits the house?

Oh, but of course. There's nobody in there. The house is empty. There's no one to protect it.

Lord, that's a crying shame! Look at that tree falling and falling and —

There goes the wall of the house, cracking like an egg struck by a hammer. That's tragic. Nothing so beautiful should have to die like this. Alone and unloved. Oh, there goes the roof. The branches have such weight, such ancient, aching weight, and now the whole place is collapsing as the tree strikes it. Every wall, window, and door. I can barely see it for dust.

Ah, well. No use looking really. It's gone.

As I said: a once-in-a-lifetime, never-to-be-repeated offer. Which could be said for all of us if you were a sentimentalist. Which I'm not.

Anyway, it's gone. And there's nothing left in my pocket to charm you. So from now on it's going to have to be tears or nothing, I'm afraid.

That's all that I've got left to tell you see: tears, tears, tears.

* * *

When I left the butcher's shop, the sky was wearing a strange coat of colors. It was though the aurora borealis had been caught hold of and dragged south 'til it hung over the grubby little town like a promise of something greater, soon to come.

I hated it on sight. As if I needed to tell you that, knowing me as you now do. I hated its beauty, certainly; but more than that: its serenity. That's what made me want to climb up to the nearest steeple and try to pull it down. I had no time, however. I had to find Quitoon, and let him see what I had become by staying in the company