Madison Rye Progress

What Right Have I bows her head, folds her paws before her, closes her eyes, and speaks softly. All stammering is gone from her voice as she leans on memorization, performance, and just plain concentration. Her tone is solemn, somewhat more than would be expected from just a prayer, as though she is here to...apologize? Mourn? “O, my Father: ancient...hallowed...”

Her expression twists a little bit, though towards what is not quite clear. She is trying to hold something back, though whether it is sorrow, anger, or fear is not exactly clear in the moment.

“Lonely...”

She flinches at that word. That or the next.

“Disappointed Father: betrayed and rejected Ruler of the Universe:” The skunk lifts her head at last, eyes open, and expression leveling at last into something still solemn, but far more determined. “I want to pray. I want to say Kaddish — my own Kaddish.”

At last she unlimbers, scrubbing her paws down over her sides in a sudden bout of nervousness, though whether this is in-character or her slipping out into her usual anxiety is not wholly clear. “I have so little time, as You well know,” she continues, and here the near whine in her voice shows the anxiety in the words as well. “Is my end a minute away? An hour? Is there even time to consider the question?”

She forces her paws down and instead clutches at the hem of her tunic at her sides, eyes wide. “It could be here, while we are singing, that we may be stopped, once for all, cut off in the act of praising You!”

The moment of terror slowly recedes as she wrestles solemnity back into place. “But while I have breath, however brief, I will sing this final Kaddish for You, for me, and for all these I love here in this sacred house.”

The skunk fidgets. She looks for a moment as though she is about to do just that, but she just cannot seem to keep the terror at bay, and it rises in a spark before she can master it: “I want to pray, and time is short!”

It has always been interesting to her, the ways in which prayer can help. It can be fervent, it can be placid, but often, it is almost meditative. That is what happens when you recite the same prayers so frequently. After all, she says the Mourner's Kaddish — that prayer for the dead which somehow never mentions death — every shabbat.

So it is that, as she starts her recitation, treading that well-worn cadence, a calmness falls over her once more. “Yitgadal v'yitkadash sh'mei raba. Magnified...and sanctified...be the great name...amen.” The words come with a subtle curl of her lips. That undercurrent of what now surely must be anger slowly rising. “B'alma di v'ra chirutei, v'yamlich malchutei, b'chayeichon uv'yomeichon uv'chayei d'chol beit Yisrael, baagala uvizman kariv.” The anger is clear, and her volume is rising. “V'im'ru: amen.“

What Right Have I's anger flares, and she stamps her foot. Her fists are clenched and her tail hiked and bristled. “Amen. Amen!” she sneers. “Did you hear that, Father? Sh'lama raba! May abundant peace descend on us! Amen!”

Her expression falls to one of almost exasperation as she continues. “Great God, You who make peace in the high places, who commanded the morning since the days began and caused the dawn to know its place, surely You can cause and command a touch of order here below on this one, dazed speck.”

She pauses, eyes lifted to the heavens, but, receiving no sense of order, wilts, offering with only resignation, “And let us say again: amen. Y'hei sh'mei raba m'varach l'alam ul'almei almaya.“

Taking a moment to gather herself again, the skunk rubs her paws together and smooths out her tunic and skunkerchief. She straightens up, takes a deep breath, and when she continues, it is with a sense of formality.

“With amen on my lips, I approach Your presence, Father: not with fear, but with a certain respectful fury.” She gestures down at herself, a little smirk coloring her features. “Do You not recognize my voice? I am that part of Man You made to suggest his immortality.”

She gives a polite nod to her imagined interlocutor, some unseen whirlwind as might have appeared to Job. “You surely remember, Father? The part that refuses death, that insists on you, divines Your voice, guesses Your grace.” She chuckles. What can one do but guess?

“And always You have heard my voice, and always You have answered me with a rainbow, a raven, a plague– something! But now I see nothing. This time You show me nothing at all.

“Are You listening, Father?” she pleads. “You know who I am! Your image! That stubborn reflection of You that Man has shattered, extinguished, banished; and now he runs free — free to play with his new-found fire, avid for death: voluptuous, complete, and final death.”

What Right Have I's anger spikes. How could it not? She is not being heard. No voice from a whirlwind responds.

“Lord God of Hosts, I call You to account! You let this happen, Lord of Hosts.” She scoffs at this title, and the sneer remains. “You with your manna, Your pillar of fire! You ask for faith? Where is Your own?!

“Why have You taken away Your rainbow?” She gives an exasperated laugh, startled at the thought that Adonai might do such as this. “That pretty bow You tied 'round Your finger to remind You never to forget Your promise?” Her recitation is plain, stolid, tired: “For lo, I do set My bow in the cloud, and I will look upon it that I may remember My everlasting covenant...”

Here, at last, fury wins out, and the skunk leans into the words with a snarl, nearly shouting. “Your covenant! Your bargain with Man! Tin God! Your bargain is tin! It crumples in my hand! And where is faith now? Yours or mine?”

Seemingly startled by the force of her words, she quickly backs off, taking a step or two back. Once more folding her paws in front of her, she offers an apologetic bow — though how earnest it is...well...

“Forgive me, Father. I was mad with fever. Have I hurt You? Forgive me,” she says, placating. “I forgot You, too, are vulnerable.”

Her sigh is tired, resigned, even frustrated. “But Yours was the first mistake, creating Man in Your own image: tender, fallible. Dear God, how you must suffer, so far away, ruefully eyeing Your two-footed handiwork: frail, foolish, mortal. My sorrowful Father: if I could comfort You, hold You against me, rock You and rock You into sleep...”

She hugs around herself and picks up her prayer once more, though now, it sounds almost like a lullaby: “Yitbarach v'yishtabach v'yitpaar v'yitromam v'yitnasei v'yit'hadar v'yitaleh v'yit'halal sh'mei d'kudsha, b'rich Hu, l'eila min kol birchata v'shirata, tushb'chata v'nechemata, daamiran b'alma.” She smiles fondly, swaying side to side on her feet. “V'im'ru: amen.

“Rest, my Father. Sleep, dream. Let me invent Your dream, dream it with You as gently as I can, and perhaps in dreaming, I can help You recreate Your image, and love it again.”

Once she thinks about it, the skunk seems quite excited by this prospect, actually! “I will take You to Your favorite star: a world most worthy of Your creation. Hand in hand, we will watch in wonder the workings of perfectedness.”

She gestures broadly, inviting one to picture a broad tableau. “This is Your Kingdom of Heaven, Father, just as You planned it.” She chuckles. “Every immortal cliché intact! Wheat ripples, sunbeams dance...”

The grin fades. “Something is wrong. The light: flat. The air: sterile. Do You know what is wrong? There is nothing to dream. Nowhere to go. Nothing to know.”

She looks down her snout, barely restrained contempt in her features. “And these, the creatures of Your Kingdom, these smiling, serene, and painless people: are they, too, created in Your image?”

Raising her gaze, she smiles ruefully. “You are serenity, but rage as well. Hah! I know, I have borne it. You are hope, but also regret. I know you have regretted me!”

She gestures down to those imagined painless people, unbelieving. “But not these, the perfected ones! They are beyond regret or hope. They do not exist, Father, not even in the light-years of our dream.”

What Right Have I waves away the tableau. It was never worthy of consideration. What matters is the here and now within this dream, and she beckons her interlocutor to the present.

“Now let me show You a dream to remember. Come back with me to the Star of Regret. Come back, Father, where dreaming is real and pain is possible — so possible you will have to believe it, and in pain You will recognize Your image at last.”

She grins wide. “Now behold my Kingdom of Earth! Real-life marvels! Genuine wonders! Dazzling miracles!” She forks, and this second skunk falls to her knees before an imagined wonder. “Look! A burning bush!” Another fork, and a third skunk raises her arms to the sky. “Look! A fiery wheel!” A fourth and fifth skunk! “A ram! A rock!” All of her merge back down to one, excited instance. “Shall I smite it? There! It gushes! It gushes! And I did it! I am creating this dream! Now will You believe?”

A proud grin sits on her muzzle. “I have You, Father, locked in my dream, and You must remain to the final scene. Now,” she instructs, slowly raising her paws. “Look up! High! What do You see? A rainbow, which I have created for You!“

That grin is fierce. “My promise. My covenant. Look at it, Father: Believe! Believe! Look at my rainbow and say after me:” Ohhh she is winding up, now! “Magnified...and sanctified...be the great name of Man!” she cries out with a giddy laugh to follow.

The skunk slowly settles back down, drifting into a pleased smile. Not smug, but soft. “The colors of my rainbow are blinding, Father, and they hurt Your eyes, I know, but do not close them yet. Do not turn away.”

She sighs, still happy. “Look. Do you see how simple and peaceful it all becomes, once You believe? Believe. Believe! Y'hei sh'lama raba min sh'maya, v'chayim aleinu v'al kol Yisrael. V'im'ru: amen.“

She looks startled, suddenly, waving her paws and stepping forward. “No! Do not waken yet! However great Your pain, I will help You suffer it!”

Assured that the dreamer will linger in dream, she subsides. “O God, believe in me and You shall see the Kingdom of Heaven on Earth, just as You planned. Believe...believe...” she pleads. “See how my rainbow lights the scene, and your children call from corner to corner, chanting your praises: Oseh shalom bimromav, Hu yaaseh shalom aleinu, v'al kol Yis'raēl. V'im'ru: amen.“

Her expression falls into solemnity once more. The anger is gone, now, but the emotions on her face are still conflicted. “The rainbow is fading. Our dream is over. We must wake up now, and the dawn is chilly.”

Her shoulders slump, a little bit resigned, but not unhappy at what she has done, here, this dialogue with a silent interlocutor. “The dawn is chilly, but the dawn has come,” she says at last, then raises her eyes. “Father, we have won another day. We have dreamed our Kaddish and wakened alive.”

She hesitates, and then a quirk of a smile touches her lips. At last, a peace falls over her. “Good morning, Father,” she says kindly. “We can still be immortal, You and I, bound by our rainbow. That is our covenant, and to honor it is our honor.

“Not...quite the covenant we bargained for so long ago at the time of that other, first rainbow.” She chuckles, shrugs helplessly. “But then I was only Your helpless infant, arms hard around You, dead without You. We have both grown older, You and I, and I am not sad, and You must not be sad.

“Unfurrow Your brow. Look tenderly again at me, at us, at all these children of God in this sacred house, and we shall look tenderly back to You.”

Awe grows in her voice. Awe and majesty. “O my Father. Lord of light! Beloved majesty! My image, my self. We are one, after all, You and I. Together we suffer, together exist, and forever will recreate each other.”

She chuckles, startled at the simplicity of it all. “Recreate! Recreate each other...suffer, and recreate each other!”

At last, the skunk recites the entire prayer once more. There is praise in her voice. Yes, this is the Mourner's Kaddish. Yes, this is the prayer for the dead. But yes, too, this is the way of things. Death is. It is a part of the world, even for those who die, even for those who have died in order to upload. There is praise in death. There is olam haba, the world to come. There is sheol, that place of eternal rest. There is peace. Actual, honest to goodness peace between creator and created.

She bows.