I. Satan.

What is it like to be the Lord of Darkness?

A wonderful title, it’s one of my favourites. In a word, I would say, dark.

It is, after all, about hurting you.

Take me ancient, I will be hiding in hedges and groves, seducing the unwary. Ruining crops, spoiling grain, salting wells. Take me medieval, find me in gardens fantastical, horned and grinning, my tail, always the same, sadly, forked. Cloven hooves, to render me more animal, I suppose. I wonder what it is in you that has to make me ugly. Surely I’m more effective beautiful?

Onscreen these days, you may find me handsome, charming, debonair and sassy. Nothing close to my fascinating, mercurial self, but it’s a step up from Bosch. Whatever the century, there is money to be made with me. Why should the churches get it all? The governments? Defining sin so they can tax it.

Religion, still incredibly popular, how many really believe? How many believe to be free of persecution? How many fear the Gods of others because they have to? All of you.

Who needs a devil anymore?

Sinning is popular, the young are keen to embrace their versions of it. As they always have been. What’s changed are the consequences, or lack of them. If you lose the long held belief in an afterlife, what reasons are there to be good? To abstain from creating your own version of paradise and calling yourself King?

Sins are interesting, how you define them, still including certain kinds of sex, even as you claim to accept them all. Still not wanting people to truly lose control of themselves under substances of any kind, you decide how much intoxication is too much. What mushrooms and how many at a time. Such noble reasons you give, my favourite, ‘for public safety’, forgetting the violence of enforcement. A power long kept in the hands of a few, only the priests change, all gods forbid you should think for yourselves.

Police- friendly, helpful, are somebody’s weapon, all armies are ready to deploy for the right person. Medieval in concept, sanctified by its simple existence as such. All that’s missing are the titles and bows, the clutch of glittering courtiers. You have other names for them now, the wardrobes have declined, the dances are missing, alas.

So how much of it am I responsible for? As Satan?

A good question. Harder to answer now than it was a hundred years ago, when my answer would have been ‘all of it’, and you would have believed me.

I hardly know myself. If you have read my first book you will know I spend most of my time in my own world. Outside of it, I like to time travel, so easy for me, and there are many places and times worth revisiting, into eternity. I only come here for the view from my wonderful Scribe. I never stay long, it’s irredeemably ugly. You have grown uglier, as a species, both less and even more gullible. There is no good conversation to be had. I liked you better when you were stretching your minds, bursting bonds with nothing but your thoughts. Now you have things like A.I. to do your thinking for you. You’re becoming too boring for words. When will I stop them? (One might be tempted to think I try to be offensive.) 

I have minions, a small hierarchy of loyal demons who run my Hell efficiently and creatively. If you’ve read my blogs you will know it’s a small, exclusive club, with the highest of entry requirements. My visits are special occasions, only the staff like them, souls who have earned their way there have no appreciation for my creative genius.

Remember, I’m an art collector, a reader, a music lover, a dog and bird lover, a friend to all trees. How many do you think I have in my world? All of them. I have an obsession called Aela, who takes up a great deal of time. Who comes with company and causes trouble. I escape on occasion, take time for myself. Yes, You heard me. You don’t have ownership of the concept.

I like long, philosophical discussions with my only friend, Dorian- ah! Sorry, one of my two friends, Armand, my chickadee, makes me mention him as more than just an informer. He is, I admit it. You should see how much he can put back when he’s in the mood and doesn’t have to fly anywhere. We have excellent conversations, I enjoy the glimpse into the avian mind, he enjoys his sense of superiority.

He's a natural story teller, like a few other birds I know. Legend has it one of his ancestors took a bite of a Roman Emperor, unclear which one, then spit him out, as bad meat. Guards, slaves, ministers, all trying to catch one bird, which of course they didn’t, since nothing can catch a chickadee. You can easily trap one, however, all you need is a good, spicy red wine and a soft lap. They grow maudlin in their cups, like any social creature, after a while they want you to rub them under the beak, around the neck. They’ll fluff feathers, pull one leg up and close their eyes, locking you in for the long term. And vice versa. If  you’re wanting to trap him, though, truthfully, there’s no meat on a finch. They use up all their energy, no fat to speak of, unless they live here. Armand insists he hasn’t gained weight, he’s a superlative liar so we have to believe him.

I tell him his beak has clearly devolved, since he can’t take a bite out of anything. He sighs. A long story involving a few hundred years breeding with, as he puts it, ‘French Minxes with Big Breasts’. Tiny beaks, so adorable on them, such a mistake. Yes, the beaks are not what they used to be. Can I, Satan, do something about it? Say some mumbo-jumbo- his words, wave my paw and poof, he has the beak of a hawk. Custom fit for his tiny face, he will change his name, we should help him think of something vicious. On and on until he falls asleep, I won’t say he snores, but. I lift him to my shoulder, he snuggles into my neck, he loves my long hair that covers him, my body temperature, my sitting still for hours so he can sleep without being disturbed.

Dorian asks me what it feels like to be a birdsitter. I tell him I can’t really say without sitting on eggs, one needs the full experience.

Elegantly. If I sat on eggs, I would do it, like I do everything, elegantly. You wouldn’t be able to tell, for one, and eggs would be Fabergé, hatchlings fully educated and fluent in a thousand languages. Half bird, half snake, you’ve heard of it, really picture it, keep both heads, I can’t decide. Irony, we need some, put the hawk’s beak on the snake and the snake lips on the bird. Beautiful. The best pets, already house trained, keen to threaten your enemies. This is a quality creature.

It’s the only kind I make.