by Bryan Davis
Abraham’s eyes blinked open, and he sat up. “Where am I?” His head swiveled as he gazed at each angel.
“At Heaven’s lower altar,” Michael replied. “You died on the Earth as Arramos, but you are not called to ascend into the holy city. You will rule over a world God has created, but now in human form instead of your dragon body.”
Abraham laid a hand on his chest and caressed his smooth skin. “Will I join my family? Shachar? Hilidan? Zera?”
“A day will come when you will be reunited, but for now, I will take you to your new world.”
As Abraham sat up, Uriel laid a bundle of clothing on the altar. “Purity and innocence will not dress you adequately in this Eden,” he said. “It is much colder than the first Paradise.”
Michael and Uriel helped Abraham dress in multiple layers, finishing with a long-sleeved tunic, pants tied at the waist, and soft leather shoes that rose above his ankles. Michael laid an arm over Abraham’s back, and the other angels began to fly around them, orbiting faster and faster until they were a blur of faces and wings.
Soon, their surroundings faded away, and a new scene emerged—a bird’s-eye view of a lush valley with a wide river meandering through thick greenery—grassy areas as well as dense forests. Now carrying Abraham, Michael flew to the ground and set him gently in an expansive basin where long-bladed grass emerged from dark, loamy soil.
“This is your garden,” Michael said, “but you must not plant anything here. You will learn soon enough what fruit is to be harvested.” An egg-shaped glass orb appeared in his hands. “Enoch’s Ghost will teach you what you need to know. Take it. You will learn quickly.”
When Abraham made a cradle with his hands, Michael rolled the egg into his grasp. Then, without another word, he lifted into the sky and flew away.
Abraham stood alone. As a stiff breeze flapped his tunic, he shivered. After surveying the landscape for a moment, he made his way to a nearby woods, marring the wet soil with the first footprint the virgin land had ever carried.
“So,” Abraham said as the ovulum faded, “with only a few puzzling words and a strange glass orb to guide my way, I was commissioned to occupy this ‘Second Eden.’ Yet, I had no Eve to help me populate the world and no pair of trees to give me either eternal life or spiritual death. I had no idea what to do, though one of the first things I did was to name stars in the sky after my lost loved ones, including my mate, Shachar, and you and Thigocia.”
“So that explains the stars.” Timothy turned toward the open door. A pair of villagers passed by, a man followed by a woman on a donkey. “I see you found a way to forge a fine community. I am amazed at their gracious manner and kindness.”
As another shadow crossed the light from the doorway, Abraham rose from his chair. “Angel!” he said, “you arrived almost before the sun! Welcome!”
Timothy shot up and smoothed out his hair and wrinkled clothes. “Yes! Welcome!”
Her head slightly bowed and her eyes trained on Timothy, she walked in, wearing a dress with sleeves that reached the heels of her hands and a skirt so long, its draft swept the floor. Two children followedCandle, his dark face framing his brilliant smile, and Listener, pale and gaunt. Although her eyes sparkled, she neither smiled nor frowned. Their hovering companions also sparkled in the ray of sunlight passing over the three visitors’ shoulders.
Timothy made a quick, silent count of the semitransparent orbs. Four companions? Why would that be?
“You haven’t been introduced to Listener,” Angel said, nodding toward the girl. “Listener, this is our new friend, Timothy.”
Timothy bent to one knee and took her hand. “It’s my pleasure.”
Listener just blinked and said nothing. Two companions whirled around her head and paused, one over each shoulder. The girl’s skin was rough, with shallow lines dividing small leathery patches, even worse than it had seemed at the hospital.
“She doesn’t talk,” Candle explained. “But I think I already told you that.”
“Yes, I remember.” Timothy rose and lifted his eyebrows at Angel, mouthing his question silently, “Two?”
Angel curled her hands into fists. “She came from the pod that way, one companion in each hand. The Prophet tells us it means she has been placed here for a great purpose.”
“A purpose yet to be determined.” Abraham patted Listener on the head, then touched the lace on Angel’s wrist. “You seem to be dressed for seasonal prayers. Have I misread the calendar?”
A slight blush colored Angel’s cheeks as she fanned the skirt. “I just thought you and Timothy might be tired of seeing me dressed for dragon riding.”
“We walked all the way,” Candle said. “Grackle whined like a baby until we got out of sight.”
Listener slid her hand into Timothy’s and walked toward the door, pulling him along. As he followed, he looked back at Angel, raising his eyebrows again.
“Listener?” Angel started toward them. “What are you doing?”
“Angel,” Abraham called. “Let them go.”
Angel halted in midstep and merely followed with her gaze. “I left the bag by the door,” she said to Listener, “if that’s what you’re going to show him.”
Listener glanced back at her mother, but her face stayed somber. When she reached the outside railing that bordered the road, she stopped and pulled Timothy down to his knees. Then, her eyes wide, she stared directly into his, gripping both of his hands tightly.
Timothy caressed the tops of her scaly hands with his thumbs. “What is it, Listener? What are you trying to tell me?”
Her lips trembled, but no words came out. Lifting a hand, she touched his cheek, then looked up toward the sun.
“Oh! You’re wondering why my face glows.” He covered her hand with his. “I saw this magnificent girl, an angel, I think, who told me an amazing story about a sacrificial lamb.”
Listener drew in a quick breath and stepped back. She laid a hand on her chest, rubbing the gingham material.
Swallowing a painful lump, Timothy whispered, “Are you the lamb?”
She returned a single nod.
“Did someone come to you and tell you this?”
Again, a single nod.
Glancing left and right, Timothy leaned closer. “Someone from around here?”
Listener shook her head and pointed at a shoulder bag sitting by the door.
“Do you want me to look in the bag?”
She bobbed her head again.
Timothy hustled to the door and brought the bag. Reaching in, he found a spyglass and raised it to his eye. “Did you see something unusual through this?” With his other eye he caught her affirmative nod once again.
He lowered the spyglass. “Did you see a girl with white hair and a blue cloak over a white dress?”
Listener gasped. This time she grabbed his hand and nodded excitedly. Her two companions seemed to flash, mirroring her emotions.
Timothy glanced at the Prophet’s door. Inside, Angel peered out, but Abraham closed the door in front of her.
Extending his hand slowly, Timothy brushed his finger against one of the companions. More opaque than the other, the faint eyes inside seemed older, weaker. With a quick snatch, he grasped the companion and pulled it behind him. It buzzed furiously in his grip, but he stiffened his fingers and pressed his fist against his back.
Listener shuddered, but instead of an expression of pain, a gentle smile grew on her face. Her skin smoothed, and a healthy blush refreshed her cheeks.
“Do you feel better?” he asked.
Glancing at the door, Listener cleared her throat. At first, her lips parted, and a raspy gurgle came out, but then a whispered phrase. “I … I can talk?”
Timothy raised a finger to his lips. “Shhh …” The companion in his hand heated up, stinging his palm as it lurched to get out. He had to hurry. “Do you want to be the sacrifice for my daughters?”
She formed each w
ord carefully. “Yes. … It is all … I have dreamed of … ever since the … beautiful girl told me … through that tube.”
“But why? You are so young. You have so much to live for.”
“I hurt. … Always hurt.” She angled her body to look behind his back where he held her missing companion. “But not now.” She laid a hand on his chest. “I want to … save your girls … and stop your hurt.”
Timothy wiped a tear from his eye. His throat twisting in a knot, he tried to speak. “Your mother … and your brother … will miss you.”
Listener’s voice strengthened. “The girl in white said … my mommy killed me a long time ago in another world. Angel is my new mommy … Only not really.” She lowered her chin and shook her head sadly. “Her mommy killed her, too, but the girl in white said even our mommies could be forgiven. I was glad to hear that.”
“But why you? Why should a little girl have to give her life for others?”
“It is my choice. The girl in white said if anyone else tried it, her companion would save the life of the one for whom she died, but she would lose her own soul, because she was not given the task.” She held up two fingers. “I can save two lives, and since I already died once, God promised I could go straight to Heaven.” She lifted her gaze. Her sparkling blue eyes seemed a reflection of the oracle’s, dimmer, but still piercing. “So I want to do that,” she said firmly.
Timothy could barely whisper. “And stop the pain.”
Listener nodded. “I want to stop everyone’s pain.”
Timothy brought the companion to the front of his body and opened his hand. It sat on a reddened spot on his palm for a moment before floating up and drifting back to Listener’s shoulder. As soon as it perched there, the color drained from her cheeks. Her skin dried out, and cracks etched crusty new scales. Pain streaked her face, and her lips parted to speak again, but only a rasping whistle blew out.
Timothy swept her into his arms and hugged her close, weeping. “Oh, dear child! Dear, dear child! Your courage is beyond all others!”
Her weak fingers patted his shoulder, and her wheezing breath whistled into his ear. Carrying her back to the Prophet’s door, he whispered, “We have to plan our departure secretly. Do you know how to fly Grackle?”
He felt her nod brush against his cheek.
“After your mother and brother are asleep tonight, bring him to the edge of the birthing garden. I will be waiting for you there, and we will fly to the land of the shadow people.”
Chapter 20
Heaven’s Altar
As soon as Elam and Naamah passed between the blue curtains of Heaven’s shield, the inner light seemed to fold them in. Elam’s eyes quickly adjusted, allowing him to lower the hand he had been using as a barrier against the glare.
Still holding Naamah’s hand, Elam stepped quietly across a hardwood floor in what appeared to be the library of a humble cottage. He picked up an old book at the top of one of the many stacks that lined the stone walls on both sides. “I thought everything was supposed to be covered with gold and filled with perfume,” he whispered. “This place is kind of cramped and stuffy.”
“I don’t know what Heaven is supposed to be like,” Naamah replied softly, “but I have never set foot in a holier place. I feel cleaner than I have ever felt in my life.”
Elam set the book down and turned back to their entryway. A gap in the wall revealed Dikaios and a bank of dark storm clouds behind him, billowing ever closer. The gap slowly narrowed until it disappeared, leaving a wall mural, a painting of a narrow gate trimmed with clinging vines that bore golden kiwi and purple grapes.
On the opposite wall, a small table and two benches sat next to a simple wooden door with an old-fashioned metal lift-latch. Elam set his hand on a lantern that rested in the middle of the table. “Still warm,” he said.
“A quiet place to study,” Naamah whispered. “The lord of this house might soon return.”
Elam lifted the latch and swung open the door. A tender, sweet aroma instantly met his nostrils as he stepped through. Inside, row after row of prayer benches lined the floor of a massive chamber, and hundreds, maybe thousands of people in white robes knelt at the benches, their knees resting on soft pillows and their hands folded on chest-high, wooden shelves. Most kept their eyes pointed toward the far end of the room. Their words hummed through the sanctuary, thousands of prayers blending into a lovely harmony.
Elam followed the forward gazes to a raised platform where a giant altar—a high table covered with a white cloth—seemed to preside over the worshippers. With purple tassels sweeping the floor, it had to measure at least five hundred feet from one end to the other.
Overarching the entire chamber, enormous white drapes stretched from beam to beam. Animated pictures covered each drape, moving images of people and scenery, all unfamiliar to Elam. The images were so clear and realistic, they looked like digital movies played on high-definition monitors, but it seemed that only a few of the people ever ventured a glance at the action taking place overhead.
Elam took a step toward the closest kneeler. A colorful hologram floated in front of her. The three-dimensional image showed a young woman crying on her bed, blood pouring from her slashed throat. With her gaze locked on the scene, the kneeler’s lips moved in prayer while tears dripped on her folded hands.
Clutching Elam’s arm, Naamah drew close. “Is this a church?” she asked. “I have never been in one.”
“Not exactly,” another voice replied.
As a strong hand clasped Elam’s shoulder, he turned around to find a tall, elderly man smiling at him. “I’m glad you could make it,” the man said.
At first, Elam didn’t recognize him, but as shrouded images of the past filtered through his mind, the man’s name pushed to the forefront. He nodded reverently. “Master Enoch. I am blessed to see you.” He wrinkled his brow. “But how did I know it was you? I’ve only seen you in the Ovulum, and you were more like a red ghost than a man.”
Enoch extended his arm and waved it across the praying masses. “You will learn that you know everyone here, even if you have never seen them before. To return to Naamah’s question, this is not a church; it is the martyrs’ prayer room. They rest here praying for servants of God who are in danger of dying for their faith, even as they have died.”
Naamah pointed at one of the holograms. “They pray for the people when they appear in front of them?”
“And they can also request to see and pray for whomever they wish.”
Elam watched another image, a hooded man lying on the ground with another man poised over him with a machete. Elam’s heart raced. He wanted to see the outcome, but he couldn’t bear to watch. As the machete approached the victim’s bare throat, Elam swung his head back to Enoch. “Do you join them in prayer, Master Enoch?”
“Although I join them from time to time, I am not a martyr. In fact, like you, I never died, so I am able to take on other assignments in addition to prayer. I have my own room and a special viewing screen that gives me a portal to other worlds. I spoke through the Ovulum from there, and I am able to project my image or my voice wherever I wish. Often, those who see or hear me assume I am a ghost.”
“So, do you have to stay here on this side of Heaven’s shield?”
“Who would ever want to leave Heaven?” Enoch smiled, lifting his white mustache toward his deep brown eyes. “But you have a point. At times I have wanted to help the people I see on Earth, so God granted my special quarters to me, and I have been able to accomplish much there.” He raised three fingers. “There were three recent occasions, however, when I was allowed to visit Earth in bodily form, but those opportunities are short-lived and rare. Fortunately, I was able to visit Ashley during her time of great need in a strange spiral staircase, though she had no idea who I really was.”
“This is all so amazing!” Elam scanned the room, searching for Acacia. It didn’t take long to find her—a girl with white lock
s trickling down over her folded hands as she watched the hologram in front of her. Unlike all the martyrs dressed in white, Acacia wore a dazzling blue cloak. Its cape spread over her kneeling bench like a royal robe, and the hood shadowed most of her lovely young face.
Enoch laughed gently and extended his arm toward the prayer bench. “You may go to her. This is a place of freedom, for all are holy. I will stay with Naamah. She and I have a few things to discuss.”
After scurrying down an aisle between two long benches, Elam stopped behind Acacia and crouched, wondering if he should interrupt her prayer. Her hologram showed a girl with scaly-looking skin standing on a village road and looking at a hand-held telescope. Acacia reached into the hologram and touched the girl as though she were caressing a beloved sister.
“That’s Enoch’s spyglass,” Elam said. “I lost it at the chasm. How did she get it?”
A little brown-haired girl kneeling beside Acacia wheeled around. “Elam?”
Elam smiled. “It’s good to see you again, Paili.”
Paili leaped into his arms. Acacia spun toward them, her blue eyes sparkling. Staying on her knees, she scooted over and kissed him on the cheek. “I’m so glad you made it! I’ve been watching and praying for you!”
Elam nodded at the hologram. “I see the girl. What’s going on?”
Acacia stood and took Elam’s hand. “Come. Father Enoch can explain it better than I can.” He and Paili followed Acacia back to Enoch, but Naamah was no longer with him.
Elam searched the area for her. “Where’s”
“Shhh!” Enoch laid a finger over his lips and nodded toward Paili.
“Oh. Okay.” Elam glanced at Paili. She seemed bewildered, but her smile never dimmed.
“Come,” Enoch said, gesturing toward the anteroom. “I will explain our situation in here. Although the anthem of praying saints is always beautiful music, we should seek solitude and a better place to converse.”
When all four had entered the library, Enoch closed the door, and everyone took a seat at the table, Enoch and Elam on the bench on one side, and Acacia and Paili on the other. Folding his hands next to a large, weather-worn book, Enoch smiled at Acacia. “I think a little more light is in order.”
