THE MOST PIOUS

By Tim Cooper

"But there shall by no means enter it anything that defiles, or causes an abomination or a lie, but only those who are written in the Lamb's Book of Life."

--Revelation 21:27

The light from an old and dying sun played softly on Caleb Truman, resting contendedly after the long, long night. An almost secretive smile rested on his lips, as if almost anticipating the miraculous payoff for many years of long and difficult work. The man sat up, yawned and stretched, and smacked his lips with obvious pleasure in being alive--doing all this before he opened his eyes, of course. Although instantly awakened in anticipation for his entry into glory, Caleb tricked himself into opening his eyes little by little so he could digest his wonderous new surroundings at his leisure, much as someone else, sometime in the seemingly-distant past, would have daintily nibbled at an expensive candy.

He was expecting many things and yet nothing, but what he saw wasn't quite what he was waiting for.

A broken field of dry, brown kindling, rent with gorges and tears into the Earth hastily covered up with scabs of lava, revealed itself to him immediately. The meager light from the old Sun could not quite block out the swarms of stars, a third of which seemed to be missing in action. What used to be the Moon was now an oblong nebula of dust and debris, spreading out from a core of craggy, sharp-edged chunks, painted across most of the visible sky creating a form resembling a microcosm of a cross-sectioned galaxy. The mountains that used to be in the distance had simply shaken themselves into a fine silt that filled the valleys and blew in the air, lending it a rusty iron odor. What remained of human ingenuity and creativity were a few charred lumps of plastic, steel, and shattered brickwork that would have once been called buildings.

Caleb turned around slowly to capture the full panorama of The Day After. That ominous Day That Would Not Be, the world's hangover from a period of trials and tribulations that made the rest of recorded history and prophesied future look like a candlelight supper, was what Caleb found himself alone in. And, to be brutally honest to himself, he was surprised; so surprised, in fact, that he did the first thing that came to mind and wandered aimlessly through Armageddon.

For hours the ragged and lonely man stalked the level plains, flat as a well-sanded table with the dust of ex-mountains, the only proof of life being the footprints Caleb left behind only to be slowly swallowed by the billowing sands. What he expected to find is irrelevant, what remains to be said is that in the middle of nowhere on an officially dead world there is very little to find. Caleb thirstily came to the shores of what was once a great ocean, and what was still a great ocean, but the briny deep had a sanguinely red hue that deterred him from drinking. Thoroughly defeated, he sat down dejectedly along the shore, sitting far enough away from the foamy spray so that the carmine waves would not stain him.

"It happened," he said to no one in particular, "it happened and I'm still here." He groaned as he lolled his head around to partake once more in the vistas common to the end of days. "Maybe it didn't happen," he thought aloud, "and I'm just dreaming." He picked up a fragment of a sea-shell and stabbed himself in the forearm two-thirds of the way from the wrist. He howled, and the wound bled. Grabbing the bloody mud at his feet, he spread it over the small laceration and applied pressure until the bleeding stopped. Sapped of all his strength, he laid down in the sand and watched the ochre clouds in the beige sky.

"I know this is a test," he announced to the heavens, "but I'm still here and I'm still faithful to you, Lord. Come and get me as you will, or not, as you will."

With this proclamation to the divine spirit that rules everything everywhere, Caleb fell into a fretful sleep in which he remembered what needed to be remembered. The son of a country preacher, Caleb Truman was brought up in the holy ways of the Bible. He remembered his father showing him the aged hardcover family Bible, saying as he gently placed his hand on it: "Remember, son--this book is the instruction manual to life. Do everything as it says, in all circumstances, and there will not be a better man than you." On those few times where he transgressed the canon law of the household his old man would give him, while quoting the exact passages the son did not conform to, a strapping the likes of which prompted Moses in Egypt to do the right thing several thousand years earlier. The switch of righteous retribution behind him, and the carrot of eternal life before, set Caleb into his ways. By the age of six he became the only sinless person on the planet. A kinder, gentler, better person would have been impossible to concieve, much less meet. Caleb was someone with the humility of Mahatma Ghandi, the charity of Mother Theresa, and the moral rectitude of the Pope. Everyone said how nice he was, so kind was he that the bullies in elementary school never even thought about hitting him up with their Neanderthal extortion practices. Little did everyone else know, but preachers from various congregations actually came to him for advice. He never lied, never obfuscated, never cheated, never shirked, never procrastinated, and sure as hell never thought anything even remotely dirty. Sure, he had a wife and lots of kids, but didn't God tell Adam and Eve to grow fruitful and multiply? No harm in that, as long as no more than biological necessity and especially religious doctrine demanded it. Caleb Truman, the only human being to ever exist on the face of the globe to still be chaste even after losing his virginity, was quietly derided for being a robot. He knew all about this gentle ridicule, of course, but he was above that and did not mind it in the slightest. And then, it happened. Antichrists, trumpets from the sky, horsemen, locusts, stars going out, seas turning to blood, death, destruction, carnage, mayhem, weeping, gnashing of teeth, and second comings. Surprisingly enough, the Apocalypse lasted only a single day. Caleb, trusting that the Lord would call him home in the Rapture, slept through the entire thing.

Caleb was awakened by a combination of returning to the present in his remembrances and the soft padding of sandals. Waking up with a start, Caleb flung himself onto his side to behold a white man with long white hair wearing flowing white robes and white sandals walking at a leisurely pace towards him. The man carried a very large white book resembling a telephone directory except for the fact that it was about eight times the volume. Other mere mortals may have had slow tongues upon seeing the Supreme Being, but Caleb, who had waited for this all his life, was surprisingly free.

"Hi, God," he said in a free and glib way that was unknowingly ironic.

God smiled, making Its wrinkly careworn face even more wrinkly in a happily-careworn way. "Hello, Caleb Truman."

Caleb thought about joking about being forgotten, but decided against it not knowing if the omniscient God would be offended or not. "You're taking me home," he asserted confidently, but then frowned, "but what's that book for?"

God kept smiling. "It's the Book of Life, Caleb."

Caleb looked at the book quizzically. "I thought the Book of Life was a hardback."

God looked at Its large white book and remarked idly, "It's the paperback edition for today. The hardback went out of vogue some time late yesterday, I believe."

"So why isn't Saint Peter toting around that thing?" Caleb asked.

"He had to put in quite a bit of overtime yesterday, so I gave him a day off," God said in Its naturally measured voice as Its face set for business. "I'm sure you have clearance for Heaven, Caleb, but We have to do this, you see. Policy." God sat back on Its haunches, set the massive white book in the sand, counted off the tabs on the sides to "T," opened it and peered deeply into its grayness.

"It's blank," remarked Truman.

"No it isn't," corrected God, "We at Heaven had to fit over eight billion names into a book eight thousand pages long, which means a million names per page, so We used a very small font."

"Why are You speaking in the first person plural?" asked Truman.

"Royal 'We,'" God muttered as It flipped the pages one by one. Silence reigned between the young man and the old Creator Of The Universe for several minutes. "Calais Truman, Good; Calb Truman, Good; Cald Truman, Good; Caleb Truman, Naughty." God slammed the pearly book shut, casting up a cloud of dust that forced Caleb to blink. "Hmmpf. Oh well, that's that. Sorry, Caleb, but I have to go now." Picking up the book and Itself, God began to walk away leisurely. Caleb was at a loss for words for a few moments but quickly ran after the retreating back of The Divine Presence.

"Waitaminute, God," Caleb cried, waving his arms above his head in a fasion similar to that used by people trying to ward off blood-sucking giant armored locusts. God stopped, the Book of Life tucked under Its arm, and looked over Its shoulder with a raised eyebrow.

"Yes, my child?" It asked in an unemotive but resoundingly deep voice.

"How am I naughty, Lord? Me?" Caleb clutched at what remained of his tattered shirt to emphasize that the subject of the conversation was him, not some dissipated wino on the street.

God turned around and put Its left hand (the right hand was occupied with the book) on Its left hip and frowned sadly at Caleb. "Well," It sighed, "no one can say I'm not a loving God. I suppose that new Universe I was going to work on this afternoon will have to wait. Sit down before you have a coronary, and we'll discuss this."

Caleb obeyed the Master of the Universe.

God started off. "Can you, Caleb Truman, think of anything that may have gotten you a 'naughty' rating?"

Caleb thought for a surprisingly short amount of time, and, in his own mind, answered truthfully.

"Nope."

"Think very hard."

Caleb thought for a longer time. Not being able to think of anything immediately, he resolved to give God his autobiography and hopefully after his mortal sin revealed itself during his narrative, he could be pardoned, go to Heaven, and everything would go just as planned.

"Back when I was a kid, the bullies never picked on me. Except for one. He was some athiest fellow who picked on me for purely religious reasons. I always turned the other cheek, never fought back even though I kind of wanted to--was I supposed to?"

"In the long run, it really doesn't matter, but I find your strength of character commendable."

Caleb accepted the compliment but realized that he still lacked Grace. "I memorized two... no, three different versions of the Bible and followed each one to the letter."

God interrupted. "Did you kill the Cannanites in My name?"

"No, oh no, God. I couldn't find any." This response drew an angry glare from God, which really is a terrible sight to behold. "And anyway, it wouldn't have been right." Caleb amended sheepishly.

"So you didn't follow them 'to the letter.'" God accused.

"Was that my sin?" Caleb cried.

"No."

Caleb decided to keep on with his story. "After high school, I went to college, learned Hebrew and Greek, and majored in biblical sciences. I joined a missionary group to sub-Saharan

Africa, where we enlightened the poor heathen." God seemed angry at this. "Well, I brought them into the light of Jesus Christ, so at least when they died they could get to Heaven, true? I tried to ease their suffering..."

"Ever hear the phrase 'digging your grave with a teaspoon,' Caleb?"

"God, in Your name I went to a godforsaken Hell... no offense..." God remained silent. "It was diseased. It was poor. I did everything I could to the 'least of us,' so that must mean I did at least a part to you."

"Your actions were impeccable, Caleb. Were it that everyone acted as good as you."

Caleb tore at his shirt. The rending of sackcloth? "So what did I do, God?" He began to get angry himself. "What did I do? I did everything You wanted. I never had any of the worldly fun all of my peers did, and it looks like they're in Heaven having a kegger while I rot here on what's left of the Earth. What is this? Some kind of horrendous joke? I followed all the rules. I did everything, just so I could make you happy and get some relief on the other side of the grave. So what, where, exactly, did I go wrong?"

Caleb would have continued but God started tapping Its foot impatiently. While it wasn't such an impressive sight, an old white man with his arms crossed tapping his foot, God's tapping did set off seismic waves. Luckily for Caleb he was still sitting down and he shut up quickly.

"As I said earlier, Caleb, your actions were impeccable. Looking at actions only, you truly were one of the better people I have seen on this planet. You acted with a selflessness that is rare among humanity. Your motivation, on the other hand, was completely selfish."

"My motivation, God, was to please You!"

"All fine and dandy. What did you hope to accomplish with that?"

Caleb unwittingly took the bait. "To gain eternal life! Just like what it says... in... in..." Caleb stopped talking, but his mouth continued moving. He bulged his eyes as if to demonstrate he could actually see what God was referring to.

"Exactly, Caleb. You wanted to get into Heaven. Therefore, you did good things. Your motivation was selfish, and therefore prideful, and therefore naughty."

"B-b-but what about all the other people? In Heaven?"

"Admittedly, they weren't as outwardly 'good' as you, and a great deal of them weren't as inwardly 'good' either. What separates them from you is that they actually showed altruism. They did something good somewhere for no reason other than it was right or honorable and truly expected no reward whatsoever. That tiny amount of altruism put enough true holiness into their souls that they deserved to be saved." God bent over at the hips until he was at eye level to Caleb. "As opposed to you, who wouldn't know altruism if it hopped up and bit you on the ass. Every single good act of yours was done under false pretenses. You always smiled as if to say, 'Look how good I am, for I do good things and never do anything bad. I will get to Heaven, I'm so good, while you're not because you heathen are bad.' You always had that ulterior motive in the back of your Me-fearing mind. A lot of people look forward to Heaven, using it to get through tough times, but it is exceedingly rare to find a person so intensely prideful to base their entire existence upon it."

"What pride?"

"Simple really. The pride of 'Well, I can be so good that God won't have any other choice than to let me in.'" God actually made a decent impersonation of Caleb's voice. "Let me tell you something, preacher-son of a preacher's son of a preacher's son of a preacher's son ad nauseam, I created this Universe and it is impossible for someone as wholly insignificant as yourself to force my hand. Pride cometh before a fall, Caleb."

"So... because of my motivation..."

"Motivation is the key, Caleb. As they say, it's what's on the inside that counts."

Caleb buried his head in his hands, and then pulled them through his rumpled hair. "What now, God? Do I go to Hell?"

God looked at him quizzically. "You actually believe in a place called Hell?"

"Yes..."

God did not chuckle, but It did shake Its head. "Hell is like Heaven, child. What is the likelyhood that one single form of existence would act as an eternal Heaven to everyone?"

"I don't understand."

"For example, take the traditional streets-paved-with-gold, Me lighting up the entire world, everyone singing praises to Me for all eternity? I'm not that conceited. There are people who like that view of Heaven, and so it exists for them. For others, Heaven is an Islamic-style paradise with virgins and free food. For yet others, Heaven is a complete sensation of nonexistence. Just as only one Heaven could never serve as the perfect eternal existence for everyone, a single flaming Hell would not suffice either. A few victims are hurt more by extreme cold. For others, Hell is just like someone else's Heaven. For yet others, Hell is a complete sensation of nonexistence.

"However, what someone like yourself would find interesting," God scratched the back of Its neck, "is that there are fewer people in Hells than you'd imagine. Good forevermore."

God turned around and continued walking away. Caleb got back to his sore, aching feet and ran after the retreating deity to no appreciable effect. No matter how fast he ran, he never seemed to gain on the back of the calmly walking God, who soon disappeared into a cloud of dust kicked up by a feeble wind.

Night fell. The albedo of lunar remains reflected the Sun's low wavelength rays and lit the world in a crimson dusk. The white stars above were oh-so far away, and there nothing left.

Nothing.

Caleb fell to his knees, crying, on a flat dusty plain of no memory on a wide continent scraped clean by death, plague, war, and famine on a planet almost completely devoid of biomass in a dead planetary system circling an encarmine star, a tiny ruby or drop of oxygenated blood in the middle of a lifeless celestial sphere, all the little lights swirling on their tracks. Caleb somehow saw this mechanism, remembered that Aristotle was wrong in his conception of the Universe, and came to his final conclusion:

This was his Hell.