The Valley of Dry Bones

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  Jennie seemed intrigued with Willard. “So you’re the one we have been afraid of for so long.”

  “That right?” he said. “Guess that was my deal. Tryin’ to threaten people.”

  “You don’t look so tough,” she said, smiling. “At least not now that Jesus has got hold of you.”

  “Maybe I never was, huh?” he said. “Maybe it was all jes’ fer show.”

  Before they left, Jennie asked to speak privately with Zeke. “Alexis told me what you’re trying to do for this young man. It’s wonderful, but how can you afford it?”

  Zeke shrugged. “It’s going to have to be personal funds, I know that, because I committed to this without a vote. We have some socked away, though the car and the bike things have cut into it a little. God will provide. But for all I know, Myrtle Geer’s already in heaven anyway.”

  Jennie beckoned Zeke close and whispered. “Would you do another old lady a favor?”

  “Anything for you, you know that.”

  “I’ve got a little nest egg of my own, and I want ten thousand of it to go to this.”

  “Oh, Jennie, no.”

  “What happened to anything for me? You going to deny me this blessing? I’ll tell Bob so he knows when the time comes, and don’t you dare stand in the way of it. Now you know if she is alive and they can get her out here by tonight, it’s going to cost a lot more than that, so I don’t want to hear another word about it.”

  Zeke was overcome. “Anything for you,” he managed, embracing her.

  Zeke, Katashi, Bob, and Willard rode with Doc in his new Land Rover after nightfall, and as they passed the small water tanker rig Willard had driven to the compound that morning, Zeke told him he ought to find one of his former coworkers and give him the keys. “We can talk about living arrangements,” he said. “But if we do connect with your aunt, maybe you’ll want to go spend a little time with her first, huh?”

  “Maybe. Wouldn’t that be somethin’, her still bein’ alive? When kin we get a letter off to her and see?”

  “Maybe next week if I’m not sitting in a federal pen somewhere.”

  When they rolled to within site of the Nuwuwu settlement, Doc was stopped by a military vehicle, asked for identification, and they and the Rover were searched top to bottom while they waited outside. The last stretch across the plain Zeke had come to know so well was now a long, slow parade of mostly vans bearing satellite dishes on expandable poles that reached high into the night skies.

  When Doc parked and they disembarked, they were soon met by the BIA agents and then by a heavily armed man in camouflage who introduced himself as Commander Kendall. Once he established which was Zeke, he pulled him aside, procured the sat phone, and said, “We’ve run into a snag.”

  “That’s not what I want to hear,” Zeke said. “I was assured by Ms.—”

  “Sir, no one is reneging on anything. You will be allowed to speak unimpeded, but it’s going to be later than any of us anticipated, and these news crews are disappointed at how long they have to wait.”

  “You mean they’re not broadcasting the whole ceremony? That was not part of the agreem—”

  “Top priority is the sanctity of the ceremony. We’re to accede to the wishes of the tribal leader, and we’ll do that. Kaga allowed them to set up their lighting and sound, but they can’t use it until the crying portion of the ceremony is over. Were you aware of how long that was to last?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, at the end of it he wants you to speak after he does. He tells me the last crying ceremony he attended was for an uncle of his, and it lasted all night.”

  “All night?”

  “But that was when hundreds of people lived here and everyone in the tribe danced and sang what they called Salt Songs. He said something about a 142-song cycle, but don’t worry, with only thirty people in this settlement, there won’t be anything that extensive tonight. But during that portion he’s not allowing pictures, so no broadcasting until he and you speak.”

  “When does he expect that to begin?”

  “Close to midnight. The news people aren’t happy.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “They’re probably going to want to make a big deal of your arrests for their morning shows.”

  “We’re upholding our end of the bargain,” Zeke said. “So it’s not going to be dramatic. You have warrants for Doc’s and my arrests?”

  “We have three.”

  “Who besides us?”

  “A reverend?” He pulled a sheet from his pocket. “Robert Gill.”

  “What’s the charge?”

  “Suspicion of murdering his wife, Genevieve.”

  “You’ll want to sit on that one, Commander. The five of us here just had dinner with Jennie Gill. She’s dying of stage-four pancreatic cancer, and Dr. Xavier doesn’t expect her to survive another week, but a disgruntled son-in-law saying something nasty on TV is pretty thin soup for a murder warrant—especially when the woman remains alive.”

  “Even if true, that doesn’t change my orders. And you have to admit, you are not exactly unbiased witnesses.”

  “But her own physician—”

  “Is being arrested in connection with the death of the woman being buried here tonight.”

  “Commander, do yourself a favor and talk to the dead woman’s son and grandson.”

  “I have. Kaga and Yuma are the ones who told me about the cameras and about you speaking.”

  “Did you ask them whether Dr. Xavier treated Gaho?”

  “Kaga’s daughter-in-law made that charge.”

  “Do you know Dr. Xavier has never met the deceased?”

  “What are you saying?”

  “That it’s impossible to treat a patient you haven’t met, or to be guilty of malpractice on a patient you haven’t treated.”

  “And you’re telling me Kaga and his son would corroborate this.”

  “That’s what I’m saying. Even I met the woman only once, and I’ve been working with these people for years.”

  “Then why does Kaga want you to speak at her service?”

  “That’s a good question in light of the warrant for my arrest. What’s that about again?”

  “Intolerance of the religious beliefs of indigenous Americans, intimidation of Native Americans, suspicion of sympathy for illegal aliens, suspicion of harboring radicalized terrorists.”

  “So the complaints about the Native Americans have come from someone whose own husband and father clearly disagree with her. The other charges will be so easily disproved that I will likely not be inconvenienced more than half a day. And by the end of my remarks tonight, anyone watching the news will discover how much it cost for the government to investigate the activities of what amounts to a tiny parachurch organization doing outreach in an impoverished area in the middle of nowhere.”

  35

  THE PROCLAMATION

  WHEN THE SINGING, dancing, lamenting, and crying finally ended and all the stories had been told about the tiny ancient body that lay wrapped tightly near a freshly dug grave, tribal leader Kaga solemnly stepped before the rest of the Nuwuwu.

  It was after eleven thirty on yet another sweltering, cloudless night, and sitting in the dust before him were his son, Yuma, his scowling daughter-in-law, Kineks, and in her lap, their granddaughter—his great-granddaughter—the soundly sleeping Zaltana. Behind them sat the rest of the tribe, weary from all the reveling in the life of the aged matriarch.

  Kaga nodded to Commander Kendall, who signaled to the news pool director that the lights, cameras, and sound equipment could be ignited, and the dusty patch behind the row of shabby huts blazed brighter than the noonday sun, making Kaga briefly shield his eyes.

  Clearly he knew nothing of speaking into microphones, so an audio assistant darted in and out, peeking for cues from a director while adjusting and pointing and rearranging them for maximum pickup. Yet Zeke, who stood behind Kaga with Bob, Katashi, and Doc in a row and Willard looking ill a
t ease off to one side, thought the old leader seemed a natural with all the attention—almost as if he somehow knew millions of people might see and hear this. But how could he?

  “I allowed that ceremony in honor of the traditions of my people,” he said, “because many of them believe that these rituals help my mother’s spirit travel from one sacred place to the next along what is called the Salt Song Trail. That is why our visitors saw men on one side and women on the other, some holding gourds or rattles and others holding pictures or other items belonging to my mother and saying nice things about her, believing they are helping her spirit journey easier to the final crossing.

  “I do not have a problem with this if it makes those who cared about her feel better, but I want you to know that my mother did not believe any of this. This is called the Crying Ceremony because we are intended to release all our emotions when we sing and dance, and I admit I cried when I remembered all the wonderful things about her and think about how much I will miss her.

  “But my mother did not count on rituals and dances and songs to get her from one place to the next in the afterlife. She believed in the God of the Bible and in His Son, Jesus, and that He was the way to heaven. This she taught me from childhood, and it is what my wife and I taught our son, Yuma. And though I confess I strayed from this and was not as devout as my mother, I was reminded of it later by dear people who helped and befriended us. And they are here tonight.

  “They honor me and they honor my mother by being here. Doc,” he said, turning and waving at him, “thank you for coming. Though you never met my mother, you have helped many here and especially me. And our friend”—he pointed at Katashi—“Zeke, help me with his name.”

  “Katashi.”

  “Yes, forgive me. It is not a name that falls well from a tongue not used to English. But this man has become our friend and has helped us with many things in our little dwelling. And over there, that man, remind me of your name, son.”

  “You kin call me Willard!”

  “Yes, Willard, he has often supplied us with water, and only recently he took my daughter-in-law, Kineks, on a much-needed journey. Thank you. And then my dear friend Bob, who shares my lack of hair and the white color of what is left. His wife is also ill, so he will soon know the pain of loss. He has told me how he decided to stay in California when so many left. Would you tell that story to our people, my friend?”

  “Oh, certainly, very quickly, Kaga,” Bob said, and he recounted how he felt led of God to challenge the people of his great church in Torrance to stay when California was condemned so many years before. He talked of how a few made the hard commitment and fewer still stayed with it when things grew difficult, but sixteen were left, and that he and the others there tonight represented them.

  “And now,” Kaga said, “I saved till last my friend Ezekiel, because I wanted him to tell you what was found in my mother’s hand when she died. It was something she copied from a Paiute copy of the Bible and which I translated for him. I want him to tell you what it says in English and then anything else he feels God wants him to. When he is finished, our memorial is finished. Our men will bury my mother in private. So I thank you all now for honoring her by coming.” Kaga moved to sit next to his son, and Yuma reached to help the old man down.

  Zeke moved before the lights and microphones and put his hand over his eyes to assess the extent of the masses behind the Nuwuwu who sat before him. The press milled about behind them, and in the distance he made out the silhouettes of dozens of soldiers. But at the far left, next to one of the huts and standing regally next to an officer was a woman out of place, rail-thin in a long, straight dress. She clutched a white purse in one hand and had her other over her chest.

  “Kaga,” Zeke began, “we are here in tribute to the memory of your mother, but it’s hard for me to express the depth of our gratitude for the honor you have bestowed on us by inviting us to such a sacred occasion. We’ll never forget the privilege of having been here tonight. Thank you.

  “It has come to my attention that this event, not by your own choosing, has taken on an identity all its own and has even been given a name—Operation Dry Bones. Perhaps whoever came up with that thought it was a creative extrapolation from the Old Testament book that shares my name. I can only hope it proves as prophetic as the passage it refers to, because God promises His Word will never return void.

  “That passage tells of the prophet Ezekiel being set in the midst of a valley full of dry bones, which couldn’t have been terribly different from where we find ourselves tonight. And God asks the prophet, ‘Can these bones live?’ He answers, ‘O Lord God, You know.’ God tells him to prophesy to the bones to hear the word of the Lord and live, adding, ‘Then you shall know that I am the Lord.’

  “So the prophet obeys and the bones come alive and become a great army. I sense an obvious question, don’t you? Are we dry bones? Can we hear the word of the Lord and live and become a great army?

  “I want to be brief, but I do want to fulfill Kaga’s request to quote the passage that his mother painstakingly copied from her Bible, which was found folded on a sheet and clutched in her palm upon her death. Oh, to be found clutching the very words of God when we are ushered into His presence!

  “The text that meant so much to her is the most famous verse in the Bible, John 3:16, and it reads like this: For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish but have everlasting life.

  “That was the message of Gaho’s life. For more than one hundred years she walked this earth, and I believe she copied those words and held tightly to them knowing she was about to go and wanting them to be her parting message to you. What will you do with Gaho’s last words?

  “Yes, I was one of the few who answered Pastor Bob’s challenge so long ago when he sent out the call, not ‘Who will go?’ but rather, ‘Who will stay?’ My wife and I felt called to stay right here in California to share the good news of Jesus with others who either chose to stay or had no choice but to stay. We’ve seen people come to faith, many after years of searching, others after years of running from God.

  “We have with us tonight one who just found the Lord today as an answer to more than a decade’s worth of prayers on his behalf on the part of his dear aunt, who I dare say had to wonder what ever became of him.”

  Zeke turned to Willard. “Isn’t that right? She must have prayed and prayed, not even knowing if you were still alive, wondering if her miracle would ever come.”

  Willard nodded, looked wholly embarrassed.

  “Wouldn’t you love to let her know?”

  “I would. I surely would.”

  “Wouldn’t it be something if she were here tonight, right here, right now?”

  “What?”

  And here came Myrtle Geer, housedress swishing, white purse swinging, church shoes kicking up dust in the tiny Nuwuwu settlement in Southern California more than 2,200 miles from Pigeon Forge, Tennessee.

  Willard, mouth agape, staggered to her and grabbed her, swinging his aunt in a circle before apparently realizing that might not be appropriate just before a burial.

  EPILOGUE

  AUNT MYRTLE AND WILLARD were the hit of the morning TV shows, and their reunion went viral. After they spent two nights at the holdouts’ compound, he spent six weeks at her home in Pigeon Forge before returning to join Zeke and the others full-time.

  Zeke, Doc, and Bob were detained overnight in a mobile military lockup before Commander Kendall led a regiment on a search of the underground complex. Following his report to an inquiry board, the three were exonerated, the suspicious Arabic document identified, and Operation Dry Bones roundly vilified by the press.

  Jennie Gill surprised even Doc by lingering ten more days before passing. Memorials were held in both California and Arizona, where she was buried. Bob Gill reconciled with his son-in-law and returned to the holdouts a month later.

  Clarence Cianci was convicted of bribery and
sentenced to federal prison.

  Cristelle Muscadin’s leg was spared, but she walks with a limp.

  Derrick Scott lost his bid for reelection.

  And Internet geeks discovered an anagram of Zeke’s last name they didn’t believe was coincidental.

  JERRY B. JENKINS’s books have sold more than seventy million copies. Twenty-one of his titles have reached the New York Times, USA Today, Publishers Weekly, and Wall Street Journal bestseller lists. The phenomenally best-selling Left Behind series inspired a movie starring Nicolas Cage. Jenkins has been featured on the cover of Newsweek, and his writing has appeared in Time, Guideposts, Parade, and dozens of other periodicals. He and his wife, Dianna, have three grown children and live in Colorado.

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