...behold, there came wise men from the east, saying, Where is he that is born King? For we have seen his star in the east, and are come to worship him...
Balthazar pulled his soaking robe more tightly about him, and sneezed. “Remind me again,” he said to his companion, wiping his nose on the back of his hand, “about the camels.”
Melchior sighed. He too was wet, cold, hungry and having doubts about the whole Second Coming business. They had been over the camel thing many times, but talking about it seemed to cheer up his old friend. “Well, it’s contrary to the Destructive Animals Act and Schedule 9 of the Wildlife and Countryside Act 1981to import camels without a licence.” He refrained from saying that he had now found out that the Destructive Animals Act had actually been framed for the import of muskrats, but even so their camels had been confiscated at the border.
“So we walk,” said Balthazar bitterly, a raindrop quivering on the end of his nose. “We walk to Bethlehem. This will make us appear Wise Men in the eyes of the world, will it? I ask only for information. And we are close to Bethlehem, are we? We’ll arrive in time for Christmas, will we?” He directed this comment at the third of their number, who remained oblivious, head jiggling to some unheard rhythm under the bright yellow of the cagoule that he wore. Balthazar reached out with his staff and poked him. A tousled head emerged from the cagoule.
“Wagwaaan, ma man!” cried the third Magus, smiling happily at him and pulling the earpiece of his iPod from his ear. “Cotch down, antwacky. Don’t be flat roofin.'”
Melchior winced. He had accepted that, after 2,000 years, it was always going to be difficult, putting the old band back together; Caspar had gone off on a book signing tour and his contract wouldn’t allow him time off even for the Second Coming, and he understood, at least to a degree, that times had changed and knew that the selection of a replacement would take place in a way that would be understood by a modern audience. “This is 2000, darling,” the agent had said, “and modern people are more sophisticated, more discerning. You can’t just fob them off with any old peasant in a robe. There must be an open and democratic process of selection designed to align our centres’ missions with the new strategy, ensuring long-term sustainability, and balancing the advantages gained through activities supporting stakeholders against the possibility of mission drift. We must have,” she had added, leaning forward earnestly, causing her bangles to ring like temple bells and tapping Balthazar on the knee with a puce-painted fingernail, “synergy!”
The two Wise Men had looked at each other dumbly. “Will that be instead,” Balthazar had asked eventually, “of the frankincense or the myrrh?”.
The selection process had taken time, but Who Wants To Be A Wise Apprentice Celebrity Problem Dancing On Ice Factor!!!! had proved a ratings phenomenon and Melchior’s increasingly alarmed calls, pointing out that Christmas was fast approaching, were met with shrugs and copies of the advertising revenue report. The Second Coming of the Saviour of Mankind came a long way behind the demands of purveyors of fizzy brown water with extra sugar and mechanically recovered cow’s lung ground up with monosodium glutamate and served on plastic buns, it seemed.
Which explained why the Second Coming, originally scheduled for the Millennium, was now eight years late.
It was still raining. Balthazar was still grumbling. “Back in my day,” he was saying, “We just followed Yonder Star. Didn’t need none of this new-fangled whatchamacallums...”
“GPS” intervened Dazzle, the newest Magus and winner of Who Wants To Be A Wise Apprentice Celebrity Problem Dancing On Ice Factor!!!!, shaking a small plastic box to get the water out of it and holding it to his ear. “Dis ting gash, man,” he muttered, “it vanilla, it...”
“Don’t bother, Henry,” interrupted Melchior, “No cameras out here.”
The Right Honourable Henry Alcala De Montford, AKA Dazzle, sighed and tossed the GPS into a ditch. “Well, it worked for long enough, actually” he said in his normal voice, having checked that indeed there were no cameras, microphones or journalists to hear his Eton-and-Oxford-educated accent. “That hill ahead is where a Holy Man was executed many hundreds of years ago for his beliefs. We’ve arrived.”
“Doesn’t look like Bethlehem to me,” said Balthazar, peering through the gloom at the distant hill. Dazzle/Henry looked at him quizzically.
“Bethlehem? Didn’t they tell you? My dear old thing, Bethlehem is out of the question in the current political climate. This is Glastonbury. Much more, ah, acceptable to the sponsors.” He patted the older man on the back. “Glasto kickin’, man! it nang! it da bomb, ma hench!” After all, he added to himself, you could never be certain that a microphone wasn’t hidden nearby.
“It’s hopeless” said Melchior coming out of the Council Offices. “According to the Birth Register, Glastonbury has had 63 births to single women recently, of which 41 are father uncertain, six don’t know what caused it and the others are in Civil Partnerships and had artificial insemination.”
“No angels, then?” asked Balthazar.
“No angels. But three of the women claim to have been made pregnant by aliens and one says her Indian spirit guide took advantage of her when she was drunk.”
“Sounds pretty normal for Glastonbury,” murmured Dazzle, who had performed at the Festival as part of his prize for winning Who Wants To Be A Wise Apprentice Celebrity Problem Dancing On Ice Factor!!!!
Melchior looked seriously at the other two Magi. “There’s only one thing for it. We’re going to have to speak to the Almighty.” The others swallowed nervously, but nodded their agreement. Together, Melchior and Balthazar sank to their knees and clasped their hands together. Melchior took a deep breath and was about to begin the most fervent prayer of his long life when Dazzle waved a mobile in his face. “No need for all that, old boy. I’ve got him on speed-dial.”
Some hours passed. It continued to rain.
“Still no luck?” asked Melchior sympathetically.
“No. Our call is still important to Him, we are still in a queue and one of His operatives will be with us as soon as possible.”
“Huh,” grumped Balthazar who was chewing morosely on something that claimed on its packet to be a “succulent Cornish Pasty made to an Original Recipe” which it may well have been had the original recipe involved an old sandal. “Back in my day the Almighty answered like a shot, didn’t need no operatives nor no fancy whatchamacallums...”
“Mobile phones” snapped Melchior. It was nearly midnight and they still hadn’t found the Child. It was time for the last resort. The Senior Magus held out a hand. “Give me the telephone, please Henry,” he said, a note of command entering his voice. “I’m going to call the emergency number.”
Henry looked at him, concern showing in his eyes. “You sure, boss?”
Melchior looked back steadily at his junior colleague. “We have no choice. Give me the phone.”
Silently, Henry handed over the instrument. Melchior dialled the number he had memorised, sick in his heart at the thought that they had failed, wondering how their failure would be received and how far he could be demoted, or even sacked. The call was answered on the second ring. “Is that” he tried to say, but his throat had dried. He licked his lips. “Is that... The Lord?”.
“Melchior! How wonderful to hear from you!” The voice was friendly and full of warmth. “Look, old friend, I know that you’ve been having a few problems, but we all have the fullest confidence in you...” The old man felt a tear creep down his cheek, warm in contrast to the rain. How could he ever have had any doubts? He allowed the dulcet voice to flow over him and felt his confidence flooding back, and he knew that the The Lord, not quite The Almighty but in many ways even more powerful, would sort matters in a trice. The Lord would speak to The Almighty, and everything would be fine, just fine. He listened for a while longer, smiling, and giving a thumbs-up to his colleagues, absorbing the wise words that were bestowed from above. Eventually, he was able to hand the phone back to Henry.
“It’s all solved,” he told them, sniffing a little. The Lord has it all in hand.”
“A miracle” opined Henry.
“Truly, He is most wonderous,” agreed Balthazar, his voice awed.
Melchior blew his nose and wiped his eyes, unable for the moment to talk. The world would be saved.
His faith had been tested, but it had survived. How could he ever have questioned? After all, had not The Lord come back from the dead before? Not just once, but twice! Silently, he offered up a prayer of thanks to Lord Mandelson of Foy and Hartlepool, and the Three Wise Men strode into the rain to seek their destiny as the church bells rang out on that Christmas morning.
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