A Vision of Heaven

The bishop rested his reading glasses on his nose, took the brittle cloth roll, and slowly, carefully unfurled it. His wooden chair made a loud creak of protest as he eased his rotund body back and settled into it. The dusty, burn-damaged brown cloth was painted with bright colors: A deep, brilliant blue for the sky, dotted with white, fluffy clouds. There were depictions of tall white structures built upon a verdant green land, populated with several figures also dressed in white. At the top center of the image was a bright, almost glowing, golden sun.

The bishop lowered his head, his chins rolling out beneath his face, to look over his glasses at the man seated across him, on the other side of his aged wooden desk. “The author of this work clearly has the eye of an artist… but the medium and method used is quite primitive.” He laid the painting out on the table. The entire cloth it was painted on was approximately forty-eight inches square. “The work is badly damaged, pocked with tiny holes, unframed, and, to be honest, it’s quite small.” He leaned forward again with a breathy groan, pulled off his reading glasses, folded them and placed them on his desk, and interlocked his fingers. “Given all these factors, why would you charge so high a price, Mr. Dersica? What makes this… this burlap sackcloth special?”

The man seated across from the bishop was very neat and clean, his infectious smile ever-present on his pleasant face. He wore a smart business suit without a thread out of place, his hair slicked back and shiny, and his slacks were pressed properly with the crease down each leg. His voice was masculine, yet gentle. “I’m so glad you asked, Your Excellency. You see, this absolutely unique piece has quite the interesting story behind it.” He studied the bishop’s face and saw his eyebrows raised in a look of incredulity. The man cleared his throat. “You may want to get comfortable, it’s a hell of a story.”

The bishop’s chair creaked painfully as he leaned back again. He rested his hand on the handle of a small bell on the desk. After a few seconds of thought, drumming his fingers on the bell, he nodded toward the man. “Very well.” The man’s story began.

Many, many floors deep, in a decrepit dungeon sat a small, ancient man. His naked, skeletal frame shivered in the damp cold as he hunched over a scrap of rough brown cloth. Using nothing but the dust from fragments of the crumbling rock of his cell, and the bright green moss that grew on that rock, he had sketched a scene that had been tumbling around in his imagination for years. He toiled away for hours on end some days, and at the end of each drawing session he would curl up underneath the scratchy cloth for whatever warmth it could provide until he fell asleep, only to continue the process the next day.

One day, the old man leaned on the rusted-out iron bars of his cell to rest, only to feel one of the bars give way, ever so slightly. He bashed away at the corroded metal with all the strength his failing body could muster, and soon he had broken through, freeing himself from his prison cell! He rolled up his sackcloth and absconded with great haste.

The old man made his way up flights and flights of cold stone steps, worn smooth from years, maybe decades of use. As he climbed higher through the dungeon, he heard the moans and lamentations of poor souls still trapped in their cages. The thought crossed his mind to try freeing them, but decided it was more important that he escapes first. “I’ll come back for you… if I can,” he whispered to himself. He also noticed in his ascent that the air was getting warmer. It had been so long since he had felt actual heat! He felt his body fill with a new vitality, his cold, pallid skin finally warm!

Before the man knew it, he had reached the door leading to the outside. He pulled it open and had to immediately shield his eyes with his arm. The outside world was incredibly bright, especially to his sensitive eyes, his sense of sight having atrophied after years of darkness. Along with the light came an intense blast of air, hot as an oven. The sudden change in atmosphere caught him off guard, and he coughed and choked as he acclimated himself. “Freedom at last,” he thought.

When he lowered his arm, he took a good, long look at his surroundings. A huge, black, dripping sun hung low in the sky, its bright corona casting its sweltering heat and blinding light all over a red-tinted, dusty landscape. Ancient, worn buildings of stone stood alongside even older, more decrepit ruins. The craftsmanship was primitive, as if thousands of years old. There were people shambling about the ruins, their skin leathery and their frames mere skin and bones. Their eyes had long since dried up from their sockets. They went on about their business, not noticing the old man emerging from the dungeon below.

The old man fell to his knees in despair. “Oh God… The entire time… I’ve been in Hell!” He hung his head and wept for a long while.

With his eyes full of tears, he glanced down at the cloth in his hand and carefully unrolled it. Although crude, as he lacked the proper tools, the drawing he had worked on for months was still taking shape. It gave him comfort, even in this most comfortless place. “I still have my mind, my body, my art… Maybe there’s still a chance for me.” He looked up and noticed a broken cobblestone path out of the ruinous city. He rolled his cloth up and made his way down the path, his bones and muscles creaking from years of disuse.

The hot, dry air, stinging with sand and dust, whipped through the corridors of the city. The old man made his way through fallen buildings and the wandering souls of the damned, searching for a way out. He used a chalk stone he found along the road to add a white color to his drawing. Examining it afterward, he found that his art was strengthening his heart and growing his resolve. He even caught himself smiling as he gazed at it, something he hadn’t done in a very long time.

Continuing along the path, the old man was led to a crude tunnel in the side of a mountain. The interior was half collapsed, but he could navigate it. It was cool inside the tunnel, shielded from the high winds. As the old man crawled over the loose rocks in his way, he noticed that the tunnel was dimly lit, but not from the blackened sun. Some of the rocks themselves were giving off a golden-hued light, just enough to navigate by. He chipped some of the rock off the wall and rubbed it to dust between his fingers. It was a brilliant, glowing pigment he had never seen the equal of. He added it to his drawing, using it for the sun at the top of the sky. His heart was filled with pride as he marveled at the effect the golden color had on his piece.

The old man soon made his way through the other end of the tunnel, finding… nothing. The path was quickly lost under blowing sands, as far as the eye can see. Hesitating for a while, he considered turning around. “There’s nothing for me back there,” he thought. “Best to press on.”

He stepped out into the red desert, adamant that he could escape his fate. There had to be something better for him beyond this hell. He trudged through the scorching sands, never faltering from a completely straight line. He walked on and on. And on. He traveled for what seemed like days, but the bleeding sun never rose or fell from the sky.

After an indeterminate amount of time, the old man’s tired, bloodshot eyes picked up on something that wasn’t red sand. He approached the small, strange object and rubbed his eyes in disbelief. He stood over a single beautiful flower. Growing in the middle of a barren desert, the blossom shone a deep shade of blue, with an intricate pattern of petals that the old man was certain had never been seen on Earth. He was enthralled by its beauty. Its cool color eased his weary eyes after days of nothing but bright red. He carefully plucked the bloom from the ground, grinding a few of the petals between his fingers. He added the color to his drawing, painting his sky a majestic, breathtaking blue color. He wept as he saw the result, staring at his master work for several minutes. Then he rolled the cloth up again and continued his walk.

He kept on his straight path, never deviating, for many days, maybe weeks? A month? Time was meaningless in this world. Before long, his pace slowed gradually, until he could no longer walk. He crawled on his hands and knees for many days more. Off in the distance, in every direction, was always nothing but more hellish desert. Soon, he broke down. He fell to the ground, the blowing crimson sand threatening to bury him where he laid. “Oh God no…” He said to himself out loud. “I can’t go on…”

Just as the sand was about to envelop him, the old man saw a pair of feet. Someone was standing over him. He looked up and saw the face of a very handsome man dressed in robes. The old man wept. “A-are you an angel?”

The handsome man looked down at him with pity in his eyes. “In a way, yes.”

“You’ve come to finally take me home?” The old man reached up to him.

“In a way, yes.” The handsome man repeated. He took the old man’s hand and helped him to his feet. “Why did you leave? Don’t you like the little world I’ve made?”

The old man realized who the other man was. He was speaking to the fallen angel, Lucifer. He fell back to the ground and cried.

“Come, now. Let us take you back to your home.” Lucifer’s voice was deep and calm, but commanding.

“Please, I just want to go. Let me go!”

Lucifer knelt down close to the old man. “In that direction? The desert is endless. You will wander for eternity.”

“I just want to go home…”

“Back to the world of the living? You should know I cannot do that. Even I cannot go against the will of your ‘god’.”

The old man slowly unraveled the scroll, showing Lucifer his work. Lucifer was visibly taken aback as he saw the painting. “You made this? Is this…”

“Heaven.” The old man finished the sentence. “It is my vision of Heaven.”

Lucifer took the painting and studied it intently. “It is beautiful indeed. The colors are very bright… yes, very lovely.”

The old man rose to his knees and asked, “H-how do I get there?”

Lucifer gazed into the man’s teary red eyes. “You can never go to Heaven. Just as I can never go back.”

The old man started weeping once more.

“May I… keep this painting?” Lucifer asked, sincerely.

The old man did not respond.

Lucifer rolled up the cloth and tucked it into his robe. “But there is one kindness I can do for you, in exchange for this lovely piece.”

He extended his hand and the weeping old man’s body faded into vapor which slowly collected in Lucifer’s hand. A ball of the white vapor floated just above Lucifer’s palm. The vapor suddenly burst into flame, then disappeared in a whiff of smoke. Lucifer looked down at the small crater left in the sand where the old man’s body had been, watching it slowly fill with sand. Then he began to walk home.

The bishop glanced down at the cloth, then back up at the man in the suit as he finished the story. He clasped his hands together and sighed. “So, Mr. Dersica. What you’re telling me is that this piece of art was created by a damned soul, using materials found within the Inferno itself, and whose current owner is…”

“The fallen angel Lucifer. Yes, your excellency.” The suited man finished.

The bishop rose from his chair and paced about behind his desk, the floorboards creaking under his weight. “I’ve seen dozens of people like you. They take their supposed holy artifacts to me and try to sell them. I couldn’t tell you how many phony Holy Grails I’ve seen in my time. I have decades of experience determining genuine artifacts from fake ones. The sellers always have some wild story behind the artifact. This story is the most far-fetched of them all. So tell me, Mr. Dersica, why should I believe a single word of what you just said?” He sat back down and looked into the man’s eyes.

The smile fell from Mr. Dersica’s face. He didn’t say a single word, but stared intensely into the bishop’s eyes. The two men stared each other down for several minutes. The bishop finally broke the silence, saying, “Very well then, so be it.” He reached forward and took the handle of the bell sitting on his desk. He lifted and shook it, producing a light jingling sound.

A young man quickly entered the room behind Mr. Dersica, who still had not blinked or looked away. “You rang, your excellency?”

“Ah yes, Peter. One thing from you.” He took one last look down at the scroll of cloth with the unbelievable story behind it. He glared once more at Mr. Dersica and said, “Fetch the checkbook.”