by Amalie Jahn
Through the course of our conversation, we discovered we share the same birthday – a birthday we also share with his girlfriend, Mia, and another woman, Kate, with whom they were also acquainted.
And, as if sharing a birthday wasn’t strange enough, we also all have psychic abilities.
So now, I hope you don’t mind, but I must ask if you are also 25 years old, born on February 17th?
Warmest regards,
Lanying
After composing the email and sending it off, she couldn’t fall asleep. She tossed and turned, organizing what she knew about the prophecy in her mind in an attempt to make sense of the illogical. At 2am, she noticed her phone screen was illuminated, a notification of some sort. She powered it on to discover a new email from Salomon had just arrived. Upon opening it she discovered the correspondence contained only three words. Three words she should have been prepared for, but evidently wasn’t, from the way her heartbeat quickened in response.
“You are correct,” was all it said.
CHAPTER
39
SALOMON
Thursday, October 6
Democratic Republic of Congo
Salomon loved manual labor. The dull ache in his shoulder muscles and small of his back at the end of a long day in the fields. The satisfaction that came with knowing he’d made productive use of his time, toiling not just for the sake of surviving another day, but in an effort to improve the lives of everyone around him. The best part, however, was how quickly he fell asleep each night, the exhaustion of his body always overpowering any lingering concerns from the day.
Tonight, though, it was different. After volleying a series of emails back and forth to the Chinese woman, Lanying, his mind would not be still. Since Marceau and his satellite communication would not return to the village for several days, he would be unable to correspond with her again until later in the week. He didn’t know if he could wait.
He was pondering the prophecy now as he lay in bed beside his sleeping wife. His restlessness was bothering her, and she stirred as he struggled to find a comfortable position in the hopes of falling asleep. It seemed, though, to be a lesson in futility.
In her final email, Lanying had described a prophecy to him, the way she fit into the ancient prediction for the world, and how she believed he did as well. After reading the message several times, he’d been unable to respond to her. Unable to put into words just how unbelievable it all seemed.
And yet, he couldn’t help remembering the strange etching he’d come across in a rock alcove as a child. Engrossed in the persistence of day to day life, he’d all but forgotten the message and the strange visions he’d experienced when he placed his hands upon the words. Now, thinking back to the inscription painstakingly rendered against the smoothest section of rock, he realized the possible significance of his decade-old discovery. And the truth behind the visions he’d experienced there.
Careful not to disturb Keicha, he rolled off the thatched mattress onto the floor, put on his glasses, and tied his shoes onto his feet. The moon was full and bright, and it guided his path as he easily slipped unnoticed past the sleeping members of his family into the steamy night air. Outside, he prepared a torch from the closest fire pit and set out into the forest. Surprisingly, after so many years, he remembered the way, although parts had become overgrown and the closest stream now cut through a small section in the valley. The forest exploded in a symphony of chirps and calls and croaks from the wildlife that soared in the canopy and skittered across the muddy earth. Mindful that he was more prey than predator at night in the jungle, he used the torchlight to deter snakes and spiders from his path. He was grateful for the distraction and had all but forgotten about the purpose of his excursion, when he spotted the familiar alcove of his youth carved out of the cliff side.
He stopped dead, reconsidering his decision. If he remembered the inscription in the cave and his visions correctly, what would it mean? Would it change who he was or force him to reevaluate his purpose?
“I believe you may be part of the prophecy as well, chosen to put an end to the evils of the world.”
The last line of Lanying’s message returned to him, and he closed his eyes, a spring of anger welling up. He already knew who he was. He already had a purpose. He didn’t need eleven words in a cave to expose some new facet of reality.
And yet…
He ran through the last twenty feet of underbrush toward the cave at a sprint and stopped just short of its entrance. He held the torch out at arm’s length, using it to burn away the cobwebs and illuminate the rocky interior. The inscription was still there, as he had known it would be, and with new insight he read the words aloud, his human voice a stark contrast to the primal echoes which filled the air.
“Seven light to save the earth. Seven dark to destroy it.”
Without warning, his legs gave out beneath him and he crumpled to the ground. Had he been drawn to this cave all those years ago for a reason? Should he have been more intuitive, knowing the words were meant for him to find?
With a trembling hand, he reached out to finger the weathered inscription, terrified of the authenticating vision it might produce.
Almost immediately the ancients were there beside him, primitive and earth-worn, huddled inside the cave debating the truth of the prediction. One of them, the youngest, was diligently etching into the wall with a sharp piece of quartz while the others deliberated about how and when the fate of the world would be decided by seven gifted souls.
“Seven light to save the earth. Seven dark to destroy it.”
Was it possible the end of the world had finally arrived and that it was his responsibility to assure the evil was kept at bay?
Salomon didn’t have long to ponder the possibilities because just as the moss of the spongy forest floor began to mold itself around him, he heard a shriek. The sound tore him from the vision, and he knew instinctively it wasn’t the call of a monkey, a chimp, or even a gorilla. It was wholly human. And it was coming from the direction of the village.
Prophecy forgotten, he struggled to his feet and headed off in the direction of the cry. Moments later a second call rang out. And then a third. His feet careened through thickets and vines, as he veered off the well-worn path, opting for the straightest route back to the village. The closer he got, the more manmade chaos he could make out over the now relative serenity of the jungle – men’s angry voices, vehicle engines, and deafening wails of women and children.
There was no question as to the bedlam’s cause – an armed gang of Rwandan rebels.
Seven years before, a group of Rwandan men had been responsible for his sister’s brutal rape. Now images of Manu’s battered body drove him through the brush without regard for his personal safety. His face and arms were torn and bloody as he approached the village.
He did not stop when he saw the pile of rubble where the granary once stood.
He did not stop when he heard the staccato of machine gun fire ripping across the night.
He did not stop when he saw the inferno engulfing the homes of his neighbors.
He did not stop until he reached his own family’s hut.
But by then, it was too late.
Behind him, he could hear the rebels loading into their trucks, taking what they wanted from his village before destroying the rest. He knew he should go after them, but he was paralyzed by the sight of his family - the bodies of his wife and sisters, brothers, nieces and nephews scattered across the floor as if they’d been blown there by the wind. For the second time that night, he fell to his knees, unable to scream, unable to breathe.
He remained there for a moment, consumed by the smoke and ash of the nearby huts, struggling to make sense of the horror surrounding him. And then, with sudden clarity he understood.
Darkness has arrived, he thought. So now I must be the light.
CHAPTER
40
THOMAS
Thursday, October 6
Baltimore
After he and Mia discovered the possible prophecy psychic off the guru’s list, Thomas sent three emails and left twice as many voicemail messages on what he assumed was the woman’s phone. Over a week later, he still hadn’t heard back from her and was beginning to lose hope. Worse yet was that while Mia worked tirelessly on what she described as a ‘hellish workload’ at the station, he hadn’t discovered any other potential matches from the stack of papers still piled atop his mother’s kitchen counter beside the toaster and the recycling bag.
“You were up late again last night,” Mildred commented as she stirred the milk into her breakfast coffee before sliding the half-gallon of 1% in his direction. “Been working on lots of schoolwork?”
He poured a splash of the milk in his own mug and took a steamy sip. “Something like that.”
She looked at him expectantly, as if waiting for a legitimate explanation, and he averted his gaze out the window, feigning concern for their neighbor wrestling her garbage can to the street. In the interest of keeping things between them simple, he hadn’t divulged any information about the prophecy or even his own abilities. He knew how she felt about ‘the supernatural’ and ‘the occult,’ so until he’d wrapped his head around the situation on his own, he hadn’t felt comfortable bringing her into the fold.
The way she looked at him now, it was as if she already knew.
“Couldn’t help but notice that pile of papers you’ve been poring over, like the answers to the universe are locked inside. And I don’t snoop, because it’s not my place, but if there’s something you want to talk about, I’m always here to listen.”
He turned to face her. Saw the kindness in her eyes. The same kindness that brought him out of the darkness of the foster care system and into the light of a loving home. He knew in that moment he should have confided in her months ago, because perhaps if he had, he wouldn’t feel so helpless now.
The story of his abilities and the prophecy and the search for the other prophetic psychics spilled out of him, and the room was awash with all the things he’d been too scared to say and some he hadn’t even allowed himself to think. When he finished, she stared at him, unblinking.
“Do you hate me?” he asked.
“How could I?” she replied.
“Because all of this stuff… all of these abilities and prophecies and good and evil and end of the world…” He trailed off, unable to say what he was really thinking about how all of those things were so out of line with Mildred’s beliefs.
“‘Beloved, do not believe every spirit, but test the spirits to see whether they are from God, for many false prophets have gone out into the world.’ John 4:1.”
He was aware his mouth was gaping open and he snapped it shut.
“‘Do not despise prophecies, but test everything; hold fast what is good.’ 1 Thessalonians 5:20-21.”
They stared at one another for several seconds until the weight of expectation became too great to bear. “What does that mean? Do you think the prophecy is good? Or bad?” he asked finally.
“It doesn’t matter what I think, Thomas. It only matters what you believe. In your heart.”
He considered this. How the prophecy made him feel in his heart. But before he could respond to her, she continued.
“The Lord works in mysterious ways.”
This particular line was a favorite of hers, a way of making sense of the incomprehensible. Perhaps it was time for him to begin subscribing to the belief as well.
“So then you think it could be true? You think I should keep searching for the others?”
She took a sip of her coffee, which he imagined was now completely cold, and reached her hand across the table, placing it on top of his. “I don’t know anything about this prophecy outside of what you’ve told me. But it sounds to me as if the simplistic language of the prediction is not out of line with the truths I’ve come to believe. In fact, I’ve always found the best thing to do when I’m unsure about something is to compare what is said with what the Word of God says. If it contradicts the teachings, throw it out. If it agrees with the Bible, pray for wisdom and discernment for how to apply the message.”
“And what about my ability? Do you think it’s…”
“Unholy?” she finished for him.
He scrunched his nose at the distinct negative connotation of the word. “I was going to say bad, but yeah, unholy.”
“Do you think it’s a bad thing?”
He shrugged.
She squeezed his hand lightly with her arthritic fingers. “Thomas, God gives everyone gifts. Abilities to get through this life. Your music, for example.”
He scoffed. His ability to play a sonata certainly wasn’t going to usher in the apocalypse.
“Some people can paint. Others can sing or write or build bridges that don’t fall down. So if I believe God gave people those sorts of gifts, who am I to say whether He has the power to give you the ability to sense danger?”
It made sense, what she was saying, and he felt better. Not only that he was no longer keeping such a large part of his life from her, but also that maybe things weren’t as bad as they seemed.
Later that afternoon, in the middle of his Music, Technology, and Culture class, his phone began vibrating in his pocket. He initially ignored it, knowing everyone he cared to talk to knew he was in class, but then reconsidered, thinking perhaps Lanying was calling with news about Salomon. Under the desk, he checked the incoming number and immediately recognized the area code as the same one he’d been calling in an attempt to reach the psychic from the list. He leapt from his desk, knocking it over in the process, and raced into the hallway to answer before the call went to voicemail.
“Hello?” he said breathlessly.
“Is this Thomas Pritchett?” The woman’s voice was deep. Older. With a thick, southern drawl. Not what he was expecting.
“Yes, Ma’am, it is,” he replied. “Is this Lillian Hall?”
“No. As a matter of fact, it’s not. This is her mother. But before you go gettin’ all excited, I’m only calling to tell you, you better quit calling here, do you understand?”
His heart was beating out of his chest in anticipation of a possible connection with Lillian. “Yes, Ma’am. I understand. But I was really hoping to speak with Lillian herself. Do you know how I might get in touch with her directly?”
She made a noise which sounded like a cackle. “Oh no, dear,” she said, her voice venomous. “That ship sailed long ago. If you want to contact my daughter, you’ll need more luck than I’ve had. That girl disappeared six years ago without the courtesy of a phone call or a kiss goodbye. Only way I know she’s alive is when I see her pop up on the news from time to time.”
“The news?”
“Oh, yes. With that friend of hers, doing all that hocus pocus stuff she does. Smoke and mirrors, I promise you that. Lillian is a liar. She’s always been a liar. She’ll always be a liar. I’d advise you to stay away from her. That girl’s nothing but trouble.” Her voice had reached a fevered pitch, but she paused then, as if to compose herself. “Anyway, I need you to stop callin’ here, or next time I’ll be callin’ the police.”
“Sorry to have bothered you, Ma’am,” he said, but before he finished, the line had gone dead.
CHAPTER
41
SALOMON
Friday, October 7 – Monday, October 10
Democratic Republic of Congo
Salomon wiped the sweat from his forehead with the same bandana he kept with him in the fields. Only today he wasn’t working in the fields, burying tiny seeds in rows beneath the soil. No. Today he was burying his family.
He had lain with them, among the smoldering rubble of his village, until the sun rose and the activity of fellow survivors beckoned him from his waking nightmare. He was aware of someone standing over him, but he didn’t move until they kicked at his back with their toes.
“Salomon?” came a small voice. “Are you alive?”
> It was Petia, a neighbor girl, not more than ten years old. He rolled over on his side to get a better look at her face and saw it was charred and tear stained.
“I ran into the forest,” she told him, by way of explanation. “So did Merveille. But we’re the only two.”
He didn’t have to ask to know the rest of her family was dead, just like his own family, who were now lying in coagulated pools of their own blood. And so as much as he wanted to remain face down on the earth, until the ground itself consumed him, he forced himself to rise, gathering Petia into his arms.
“It’s okay,” he told her. “We’re going to make everything alright.”
Now he found himself along the edge of the jungle with the handful of other survivors, digging graves for those they lost. Each shovelful of dirt strengthening his muscles as well as his resolve. Educated in the ways of science, history, and law, he knew for every step forward his countrymen made toward a peaceful existence, there had always been someone waiting just around the corner to drive them two steps back. It was the way it always had been. It was the way it always would be.
Unless someone finally took a stand.
As he dragged his family’s remains to the shallow grave, Lanying’s words repeated like a mantra inside his head. “I believe you and I were born into this destiny for a reason. To fulfill the ancient prophecy and usher in a world without fear or pain or oppression.”
If he was ever in need of a world without pain, it was in this moment.
He kneeled now, inside the pit, beside Manu and Keicha, unable to perform the proper burial rituals of his people due to the sheer volume of dead requiring his attention. There would be no wailing or dancing or ceremonial washing. Instead, he merely kissed each of their faces, a final ‘love touch’ bestowed upon them, ushering them into the life beyond.
