The Sacred Clown knows many things. He was a legend even before earning a double major in joke spinning and shapeshifting at the University of the Universe. He’s invited back every fall for homecoming. Some claim to have seen him at these doings as the opposing quarterback, surly janitor, gregarious president, wealthy alumnus, sotted bottlewasher, and mendacious parking attendant. There is no photographic proof of these sightings
The Sacred Clown is more agile than other gods. He is no stranger to their skills in all forms of magic, destructive power, control of the weather, or any other form of godly power. He mostly regards these skills as performative and unimaginative. Old hat, if you will, for powerful beings hovering over mortals. But when you don’t get out much, you fall into dualistic thinking. The Clown worked hard in his younger days to separate himself from the god rabble and even harder to elevate mischief to the top rung on the god continuum of skills. He’s mostly succeeded, and some gods never will never forgive him. These gods will be stuck forever plowing old ground.
Throughout this novel the Clown interacts with middling gods: Odin, Only Man, Mayantu, and Buddha. While it might seem obvious that his second-tier gods would oversee the travails of second-rung mortals, there are exceptions. In this novel there are several first-rung humans. The quick amongst us will spot top-drawer mortals and ponder why it is that humans of higher ilk seem to also be fodder for mediocre gods. Hints are strewn throughout these pages but it is likely that no one will be satisfied by any simple answer. Such is the way of mortals, especially squirmy mortals. Gods aren’t free from a sporadic squirm either. Meanwhile, whenever prudent the Clown will tug on the cosmic zipper separating gods and humans and when he does it blurs the few distinctions between gods and humans that we hold dearly.
Odin’s name echoes across Scandinavia and in secret gatherings throughout Minnesota and the Dakotas. In basements decorated with crepe paper purloined from the high school prom and fake flowers fashioned into makeshift Valhalla gates, diehard devotees chant Odin’s name as the patriarch of the Caucasian ideology. Bold Lutheran pastors condemn Odin from the pulpit, urging their flocks to practice the lessons of passive aggressive behavior taught by St. Paul. It is a confused culture that creates the pervasive inferiority complexes found among mortals and gods roosting in the rural lands in the northern tier.
Only Man, chief deity of the Mandan, Hidatsa and Arikara tribes, embodies humanity’s foibles while packing a medicine bundle of empathy. Mayantu, the Amazonian curandero, or healer, is known as the God of Good—and is widely thought to be the originator of the magic rainforest fungi dubbed “Little People.” These fungi have set many a mind free but overseeing correct cultivation and ceremonial use is a huge burden. Mayantu shrugs a lot. Both guys feel like friends you’d invite for coffee or a beer. They’re rugged, a little wild, yet kind to an extreme in an earth-bound way. Colonizers might call them salt of the earth. Their humor flirts with the Clown’s spirit, but they lack the sustained focus required for prolonged mischief. Their interventions with humans consist of a few brief nudges and not prolonged encounters with sticky spiders’ web necessary to produce real results.
Some may take or even feign righteous offense to Buddha’s assignment to the middle ranks in this novel. He certainly has more followers than any other god in this novel and, if the popular vote were fully considered, their umbrage with his assignment to those regions might very well carry the day. Buddha’s championing of justice also stands him in good stead in this beauty contest but ultimately admission to the upper rung owes much to whether that deity’s followers can practice good mischief. Consider the use of scary figures. All Buddhist temple gates are guarded by demonic sentinels, chiefly dragons–but occasionally a dog or two–baring fangs with paws resting on hellish skulls. These in-your-face messages are intended to shore up the depravity of those lacking in faith. However, there isn’t a stitch of evidence to suggest that this improves anyone’s inclination to look for solutions inside herself or himself. The effort to create good mischief is a layer cake built slowly and deliberately and not a cheap gumdrop. Although these shortcomings can be traced chiefly to his followers, Buddha has had at least two Millinea to fix these errors. Neglecting the pathway to mischief sealed Buddha’s slot in the assembly of gods. Any defense of grotesque pageantry over substance should offend both mortals and gods. It irritates the Clown.
It’s all a fine mess and someone must clean it up. All of it. The aware reader may hear the Clown chortling and laughing at punchlines only he can full understand. This novel is an offering to his sacredness as well as an appeal to all that is profane.
