Thirteenth Night by Alan Gordon Page B

Fabian fussed with the rope until it was level with their chests. “This is the height,” he said to a man who marked it with chalk on each of the poles. “Remember, Paradise must reach the ground so only their heads are visible once they enter. Demons! Mouth of hell, if you please.”
    â€œI know there are those in Rome and elsewhere who disapprove,” said the Bishop a little more quietly. “But there’s no reason why we shouldn’t usurp spectacle to our purposes. Why should the Devil have all the good tunes?”
    â€œBecause, unlike your choir, he can sing.”
    He laughed. “Charity and patience, my cynical merchant. And you shouldn’t be one to criticize. I’ve heard German music—those elevated drinking songs—and it is unfit to sing the praises of Our Lord. And you condemn actors. Remember Genesius and Pelagia were actors once, and now they’re saints. Well, good pilgrim, although I’m forbidden to put my own genitals to use, that doesn’t mean I want them to freeze off. I will see you later at the Elephant. I am giving the traditional blessing of the wine in there.”
    â€œIf there’s wine to be blessed, I will honor the sacrament,” I promised, and he strolled away. An earthy fellow for a Bishop, I thought. Unusual, but I liked him the more for it.
    Fabian was walking the demons through some clumsy pratfalls. “Now, remember, this is the holiest personage you have ever encountered, and it should send you into a complete panic. Astarot and Anaball on the right, Berith and Belyall on the left. Use your pitchforks, trip over them, try poking each other.” Belyall slipped for real on a patch of ice and nearly impaled Astarot. The onlookers roared. “That’s good,” applauded Fabian. “Keep that in.” Belyall looked dubious as to whether he could repeat the move. Astarot looked dubious as to whether he wanted him to. Berith belched abruptly, some more spontaneous comedy. It was all very crude and pedestrian.
    â€œCome, demons, you can do better than that,” scolded Fabian. “By heaven, if only that drunken oaf Feste were here to see this. He could teach you a thing or two about falling down.”
    I had decidedly mixed feelings about being invoked in that manner.
    The demons finally trooped through the mouth of Hell. Jesus made another bland and pretty speech and followed them.
    â€œSir Andrew? Where’s Sir Andrew?” shouted Fabian.
    â€œHere I am!” shouted the spindle-shanked knight, galloping into the square precariously perched on an equally emaciated pony. The beast stopped abruptly, pitching its rider headlong into the choir. Fortunately they seemed to be expecting something of that kind, for several, in the spirit of the season, cleared a space for him to fall.
    He stood up, reassembled his wardrobe, and limped over to an impatient Fabian.
    â€œMy apologies,” said Sir Andrew. “You were going to tell me my cue.”
    â€œYour cue was to be here an hour ago,” snapped Fabian. “Everyone else, in town and out, managed to be here, but not Sir Andrew. Oh, he was a-traipsing through the woods looking for his little stone so he could live his little life past his days. Demons!” he shouted suddenly, and Sir Andrew jumped, looking frantically about for them while the choir roared with laughter. The demons emerged. “Now, Sir Andrew, when they enter the mouth, I want some kind of smoke and flame.”
    â€œCertainly,” said Sir Andrew. “I can give you red smoke, black, or a nice yellow I’ve been working on. The flame, unfortunately, will not lend itself to being anything other than flame-colored.”
    â€œRed would be fine. And then the second time will be when the Count enters. Count Sebastian?”
    â€œMorning, Andrew,” waved Sebastian from the mouth of the devil. “Coming for the mince pie tonight?”
    â€œYes, thank