Preston L. Allen

Maggot Pit

A Tale for Children

From the Collection Full Metal Sonrisa

And in that country wherein deviancy is neither tolerated nor forgiven, there was a man of lowly birth and even lower cerebral output who was a notorious mischief maker and taker of lives.

And when that man Jack was finally caught and forced to pay the piper for his crimes, he was sentenced to spend the rest of his days in a seven-foot by seven-foot by seven-foot vault. These latter days would be few, but painful, since no food was to be provided, nor water. Jack's crimes had so offended the good citizens of his country that they had demanded the gravest punishment allowable under their law: death by starvation.

With his eyes seeming more bored than fearful or even courageously stoic, Jack yawned, watching with impassivity the ministrations of the officious quartet who stood as the last evidence of any world beyond his small cell that he would ever see: namely, the high priest and the jailor, and the two lumbering guards who accompanied them. After the priest mumbled a few mysterious words, he gestured with a forefinger, tracing in the air what Jack recognized was the representational figure of a man with arms outstretched on the crossbar. The jailor checked his watch. The guards were silent imbecile giants.

As the rite proceeded, Jack thought about nothing in particular. He didn't think, let's get this over with. He didn't think, I could take these guards, the big dullards, the jailor too, use the priest as a hostage, bust myself outta here. He didn't think, well here it is Jacky-boy, you really blew it this time. He didn't think of the mates he had run with, the women he had loved, or his dear mother, weeping miserably and alone. He was a man who could at will render his mind as blank as his heart. He was, in fact, a psychopath.

The priest concluded his rites and exited the cramped chamber followed by the jailor and the two guards, one of whom lingered, trying to make a kind of sympathetic eye contact with Jack. After they were gone, he heard a terse verbal exchange outside his cell—“It is against the rules. I forbid it.”—“But who will know? I must do it. I must.” Before the steel door slammed shut and the jailor's keys turned the many bolts in the many locks, the sympathetic guard reappeared waving a book of matches and pack of cigarettes with a few cigarettes left in it. Stooping, he placed them on the ground and smiled at Jack, who smirked at the gesture, smirked too at the golden crossbar dangling from the guard's neck on a thin chain. Again, the figure with the arms outstretched. The guard stood and was gone.

And the door was shut and the many locks were locked and Jack was alone now, seated on the damp ground in the middle of the cell taking in his surroundings: the concrete walls, the concrete ceiling, the steel door and its impressive hinges, up near the ceiling a long slit-like opening barred with steel rods, the sunlight squeezing through the slit throwing a hazy light about the room, the damp floor, something foul-smelling and dead in one corner—a large rat, the long tail, the grinning snout—flies buzzing around the smelly, dead thing, the cigarettes spilling out of their box, eight cigarettes in all, “REPENT” written on the box in pencil in the guard's surprisingly delicate curlicue script, maggots writhing on the ground near the dead beast, "REPENT" misspelled as “REEPNT” written on one wall in a large clumsy script that looked like maybe it was a finger that had used blood as ink, maggots oozing their way through the stomach of the rat, the cover of the book of matches advertising the roominess of the rooms in the somebody's hotel, maggots coiling in the rat's eye sockets, maggots squirming around each of the rat's feet, wrapping them in white like pretty white mittens on a dead, rat-like kitten, maggots near Jack's hands which were flat on the ground at his sides, maggots squirming near Jack's bare feet, maggots on top of maggots, maggots in every corner, maggots in the cracks, maggots in the crags, maggots playing, maggots dancing, maggots weeping, maggots fighting, happy maggots, sad maggots, large maggots, small maggots, maggots and their mothers, maggots and their fathers, maggots who ran the place, maggots who hated the place, maggots with maggots, and maggots with maggots , and just plain maggots.

And there was nothing in Jack's heart.

And there was nothing in Jack's mind.

And he reached out and scooped a handful of them into his mouth.

And he was larger, stronger, and smarter than they.

There were enough of them to sustain him for quite some time.

Until. Until.

* * *

His impact on their mortality was dramatic . . . but tolerable. The maggots, who were a practical species, adjusted their culture and custom to compensate for his presence. Life, as they say, goes on. A thing is, what a thing is.

They were a clever species, who assuaged his great hunger with sacrifice, pacified the wickedness of his ego with worship. They referred to him sarcastically as the "bringer of life," though he brought only death. He did not get the joke as they knew that he would not. There is a saying among the cynics of the maggots: “The only way to appease a tyrant is through oxymoron of thought and deed.” They submitted themselves willingly and joyfully and gratefully to the bringer of life , which served to deify Jack. Subsequent generations didn't get the joke either, but continued to use the name.

The problem of his immense presence, which restricted maggot mobility considerably, was overcome when the pious designated all areas within six inches of him as sacred. Only the holy dared venture near, and even they could be sacrificed with a swiftness if he found their hearts to contain even a hint of carnality. Jack was good at exposing hypocrites.

The rules were simple: Obey Jack. Be faithful to Jack in all things, even in that small place hidden deep inside the soul, for Jack will surely find you wanting and cut you off. And if you are cut off, you deserve it.

Jack was good at encouraging harmony. An age of peace such as maggots had never seen was born when Jack entered their realm. Jack was an impartial judge, jury, and executioner in every argument from boundary disputes to domestic quarrels. There were, at first, some dissenters to Jack's impositions; Jack declared dissenters heretics, and heresy a capital offense. Of course, Jack addressed all capital offenses with a swiftness. Problem solved. When all maggot-kind learned Jack's golden rule—Obey Jack—there was peace and prosperity among maggots. Culture, philosophy, and art flourished. It was a maggot renaissance.

Jack was All Powerful—who dare stand against him? Jack was Ever Present—who dare hide from him? Jack was All Knowing—who dare dispute him? The absolute value of Jack's Truth spoken from the Mouth of Jack was incontrovertible in the presence of mere mortal evidence. To suggest such a thing was blasphemy

The generations of maggots came and went until maggot-kind could not remember a time when Jack had not been, nor could they dream of a time when he would not be.

"Jack Was," "Jack Is," and "Jack Will Be" all meant the same thing in the language and mind of the maggot.

* * *

But the maggot-god was made of mortal flesh.

While Jack lived far beyond the expectations of those who had imprisoned him, about 144 days, a figure which is so incalculable to a maggot it might as well be eternity—he had been physically deteriorating since the first day due to a lack of balance in his diet. When he felt the time had come for him to die, Jack assembled the high priests and elders of the society and told them that his demise was imminent. He was surprised but pleased when they refused to accept this.

They argued: "Jack cannot die because Jack Was, Jack Is, and Jack Will Be. And you are Jack, and there is no other."

With a loving smile, Jack warned them not to argue with Jack. The high priests and elders, the most pious of the pious, went away very much baffled.

Why was Jack contradicting Himself?

How could Jack contradict Himself?

Then they began to chuckle among themselves as the answer became clear to them. Of course, it was not possible for Jack to contradict Himself because Jack Was Jack. Jack's Truth was greater than all mortal evidence to the contrary. Jack's Current Words were not contradicting Jack's Truth. No, of course not. Jack was but testing their faith. Of course. Of course.

And they commanded all of maggot-kind to fast and pray along with them until Jack gave them an answer that would reconcile the apparent discrepancy, which they knew had to be a weakness in their own understanding. And they prayed to Jack that if he did not give them a better understanding that he would at least give them the purity of heart to accept those things that were too great for them to understand. Maggot society stood still for a month (about an hour of human time) while they cried: "Let Jack be Jack."

This was the plan.

The most pious of the pious were a simple-minded species.

* * *

Jack was becoming weaker, and he knew that he did not have long to live. He spent most of his last day (one human day) in a stupor, waking up occasionally to cheers, and shouts of "Let Jack be Jack" and "Obey Jack."

A genuine sadness set in when he realized he would be leaving the maggots. He wondered what they would do without him. Would they worship his ghost? Would Jack Worship continue forever and ever? And what would they do to his body? Make of it a shrine, a holy place? As a terrible tremor shook him, his vision became distorted, and his maggots, momentarily, looked like maggots.

His vision stabilized, but a thought began to worry him: they are maggots. And His Body was a body . Maybe not this generation, maybe not their children's generation, but eventually they would desecrate His Holy Body.

The cries of "Let Jack be Jack" filled his ears, but he saw them at last for what they were. The frightful, sacrilegious vision spurred him to action.

And Jack removed his shirt. And he did light a match and touch it to the shirt, and when it caught he flung the flaming cloth into the midst of the maggots.

In moments, the cell was ablaze.

As he died, Jack shouted, "So dies the god, so dies the worshippers."

* * *

But there were those who had survived it—they were a clever and practical species—the nonbelievers, the impious, the heretics, and the free-thinkers, who had squirmed to safety in holes they had dug in the ground.

And they came up from underground, and they collected the remnants of Jack that they could and they called them Holy, and they built a temple of his bones, and they wrote his words on the walls of the temple so that they would not be forgotten.

And then they feasted on his flesh and his blood as they sang a new hymn with rejoicing.

“Jack is not dead. Long live Jack. The Bringer of Life. The Bringer of Fire. The Bringer of Death.”

And they were fruitful and they multiplied and they replenished the maggot pit.

And maggot-kind flourished for more than a hundred generations.

© 2007 by Preston L. Allen

Cover Design: Joseph McNair