The Magic Eye of God

By Nix Nada

Henry Carpenter surveyed the exterior of his new home with pride. The roof was evenly tiled with neat rows of terracotta; the drainpipe was rust free and looked like it could hold the house up by itself should need arise; the windows were double-glazed and gleaming; the brickwork was solid and decorated with a layer of fine, beige pebbledash.

“I built that,” Henry breathed to himself in awe. “Me.”

It’s a work of art, he thought, a thing of beauty. Why, if I squint, It almost looks -

A shape shimmered before him. He stepped back with a gasp, but it had disappeared.

Henry frowned. For a moment, his sturdy home had seemed - uneven - as if a section of wall stood about a foot out from the rest. He squinted again, crossed his eyes a little, found his focus and - there! In the centre of the pebbledash stood the figure of a woman, her skin a smooth beige, her hands held out as if in offering.

Henry scratched his head and gave a nervous belch. “Blow me,” he muttered. “It’s the Virgin Mary.”

With a timid glance up towards the Heavens, he ran indoors.

“Agnes!” he cried. “You have to come and see this!”

He found his wife was in the living room, watching an afternoon soap. She was a large, sour-faced woman, but Henry loved every inch of her - which was a lot of love. Without looking up, she tutted. “What is it now? An eave that’s particularly well dropped? A mortise that you rather cunningly locked? A craftily fashioned - “

“Oh, shush,” said Henry. “This isn’t anything I made.” He frowned slightly and not just at his wife’s reluctance to share in his constructive passion. “At least I don’t think I did. Not exactly. I mean…”

She sighed as he tailed off. “Never mind. Let’s see it,” she said with a rather unfair portion of heavy reluctance.

Immune to his wife reticence, Henry brightened. “It’s out here.”

Agnes followed her husband out onto the neatly trimmed front lawn and found herself staring at a blank wall. She put her hands on her ample hips, pouted and simply said:

“What?”

“Don’t you see her?!” hissed Henry, as if fearful of raising his voice.

“Who?” asked Agnes, sounding a little nervous now and scanning the surrounding little shrubs and hedgerows for concealed ladies.

“There,” Henry pointed at the wall. “In the wall. The Virgin Mary!”

Agnes stared glassily at the indicated place. “Good God!”

“You see it?” whispered Henry.

“You’re mad,” Agnes whispered back. “There’s nothing there. I’m going inside.”

Henry grabbed her shoulders. “Please. For me. Just look. Cross your eyes.”

“Cross my - “ started Agnes, but one glance in her husband’s earnest eyes and she did as she was instructed.

“I don’t… what am I… Oh, my God!” This last was almost a whisper. She saw, and seeing is, after all, believing. “Did you make that?”

“Of course not. It’s just random stonework.”

“But she’s so… exact. She’s got such sad eyes.”

“I know. Hold on - where are you going?”

Agnes was heading back inside. “I’m going to call the vicar. A miracle in my own front garden!”

- - -

Before the week was out, the front lawn was being trampled by a horde of pilgrims, gawkers and, of course, a few disinterested members of the press.

The vicar took Henry aside. “Bless you, Henry. You have brought God to our sleepy little village.”

“Surely you did that,” said Henry, more interested in the damage being wrought upon his little garden.

“Well, yes.” The vicar gave a little cough. “But you have brought the thought of God alive. Pilgrims are flocking here from all over. The Pope himself may take an interest,” he added with some pride.

Henry frowned and looked in confusion at the vicar. “The Pope’s Catholic though and you’re - “

“Yes, yes. But God is God, my son. So tell me,” he threw a conspiratorial arm around Henry’s shoulders. “How did you do it? It must have taken you ages.”

“I didn’t. It’s just random pebbledash. Carefully applied I grant you, but random none-the-less.”

“Random,” breathed the vicar. “A real miracle. Well bugger me…”

He wandered off, shaking his head, leaving Henry to survey the throng of pilgrims.

Robes and sandals, he thought. Going a bit far aren’t they?

Then he saw Agnes, her round face beaming, handing round trays of little sausage rolls to the cross-eyed faithful.

“Agnes!” he called. “What are you doing?”

She crossed to him, still grinning. “Well, I always said I wanted to have people round.”

“But we don’t even know these people!”

“So? I don’t like the people that I do know.” With that she glanced at the other houses in the street, taking in the twitching net curtains and the poking noses of their neighbours.

Henry shook his head in bewilderment and decided to greet the crowd himself.

“Hello,” he said to the first pilgrim he bumped into, a tall thin man with a shaved head. “I’m Henry. I own this house.”

The tall man turned to look at Henry and slowly uncrossed his eyes. The pilgrim regarded him with a patronising air. “This is a place of God, my child. No-one may own it.”

“Well, I bloody do. I built it,” replied Henry before walking on, fists clenched. Next, he met a small, round man with ruddy cheeks and a deep sadness in his eyes.

“I can’t see a thing,” he wailed. “Alas! My faith is weak - weak!”

“I can see it,” remarked a press photographer, flicking his cigarette end into the rockery. “It’s a sailboat, innit?”

“It is the image of our Blessed Mother!” cried the little pilgrim in frustrated indignation.

“Well, my blessed mother doesn’t look anything like a sailboat,” replied the photographer. Yawning, he went back to his contemplation of the wall.

“It’s a hoax!” cried another from the back of the crowd. “I can’t see a thing. It’s just a ruse to get us to…" He floundered. "...eat their sausage rolls!”

This caused angry mutterings from two opposing factions in the crowd, half toward the voice at the back, the other directed at Henry.

“Hold on,” said the photographer. “I can see her - I can bloody well see her!” He hurriedly lifted his camera and snapped off a few useless shots through crossed eyes.

“Lies!” came that voice from the back. “He’s using the press against our religious principles!”

More angry murmurs, almost all pointed towards Henry. Henry craned his neck, but couldn’t catch sight of the troublemaker.

“Now listen, come on,” Henry stuttered.

“No!” yelled the voice from the back and the angry murmurs grew to violent shouts. “Don’t listen! He is a harbinger of Evil!”

With that, the majority of the mob advanced on Henry, murderous dissatisfaction glinting in their eyes.

The fat little pilgrim, facing a large group of angry fanatics, fell blubbing to his knees.

“Oh, Lord. Oh, Lord,” he sobbed.

Henry seized his opportunity and grabbed the tall, bald man and pushed him over the body of the wailing figure, creating a surprisingly effective barrier. From behind this he quickly went over his options in his head and chose the only safe one. He ran.

Grabbing Agnes on the way past, he fled into the house, locked the door, and ran upstairs, locking the bedroom door behind him too.

“They’re mad!” he cried, breathing heavily.

“They’re your friends,” Agnes sniffed. “Nothing to do with me.”

“Nothing to do with me?” Henry exploded. “Who was the one handing out sausage rolls?”

“Well who was the one put the Virgin Mary on the wall?”

“I didn’t do it on purpose! I didn’t think, ‘oh, I know what’ll finish this place off nicely - a three-dee bleeding stereogram of the Virgin bleeding Mary!’ ” With that, he sat down on the bed, and landing heavily on bare carpet.

“What the - ?” he said, standing up and whirling around. “Where’s the bed?”

“Never mind that - where’s the TV?!” cried Agnes in anguished disbelief.

They both turned as one towards the window, in time to see a small group of men, carting away their belongings.

Henry sighed with bitter resignation and moved to the window. Below him, a riot was kicking off. The faithful were quite a strong group, but they were outnumbered because there are always some who seem physically incapable of viewing stereograms.

Bricks were thrown, branches were swung, windows smashed, blood spilt. Agnes just sat on the floor and closed her eyes. Soon Henry could bear no more witness to the desecration of his sacred garden and went to join her, holding her tight, until the sirens came.

And then there was peace once more.

- - -

The next morning, a tired and sore Henry Carpenter emerged to survey the damage. It was more terrible than he could imagine. The hedgerow had been torn from its roots; the drainpipe had been hauled from its moorings, the living room window was now just so many shards; even some of the terracotta tiles had been dislodged and lay in powdered pieces in the dirt.

Worst of all, where the image of the Virgin Mary stood, there was a violent splash of dark crimson. Henry winced. He had never seen so much blood. Hardly daring to look, he crossed his eyes, and there stood the Virgin Mary, bloody hands out stretched, sad eyes staring out from her splattered face.

Henry looked Heavenward. “Oh, Lord,” he muttered and hurried to get the hose from the garden shed.

When it was set up, he said a silent prayer and started the water. A strong jet battered the wall, eradicating the blood. It also dislodged a few tiny stones and with a cry that came a little too late, Henry shut off the water.

“What have I done?!” he yelled. Again, he squinted, crossed his eyes a little, found his focus and - there! In the centre of the pebbledash, stood the figure of a man with horns, his skin a dark beige, his hands resting insolently on his hips. His mouth was filled with cruel fangs and was open in what looked like mocking laughter.

“Impossible!” cried Henry.

Then he stared in mute horror at the devastation, at the wreckage of his hand-crafted home, then up at the bedroom window where his cherished wife looked down, weeping. All this was caused by his ‘miracle’ and it all seemed to make horrible sense.

Mr and Mrs Carpenter moved out that very same day.