3ZEKIEL
Copyright © 2019
All rights reserved. The right of Peter Cawdron to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All the characters in this book are fictitious, and with the exception of Pretzel, any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Cover art: NASA Commons. Progress M-21M Undocking from the International Space Station's Zvezda Service Module aft port on June 9, 2014 (image SS040-E-008471 posted on Flickr using id 35066308691)
For my friend, Rhys
Stage I: Descent
Ezekiel
“...in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.”
In unison, we all reply, “Amen,” even the servants.
Sweat beads on my forehead. Flies buzz through the air. The humidity is stifling even though the sun has set. Flashes of lightning to the north signal a storm that’s destined to pass by without offering relief.
Boiled potatoes, diced chicken, maize and carrots are dished up and placed in front of me. Etiquette demands I wait for my father to start. He tastes his food and only then seasons it with a little ground pepper and a pinch of salt from a wooden bowl set in the middle of the table. To season first is to insult the chef, so I follow his lead. Respect is important. Respect is all that separates us from the savages.
“Brother Jacob,” the itinerant missionary sitting opposite me says, sprinkling salt on his food as he addresses my father. He’s forgotten his etiquette and is seasoning his food before tasting. Forgotten or deliberately ignoring? “What do you make of the star?”
I can see my father fuming inside. His jaw clenches. His nostrils flare—only slightly, but I notice. His eyes narrow.
Brother Mordecai doesn’t care. I’ve spent years wilting under my father’s gaze. For me, the missionary’s defiance is a delight. I wait, watching to see if Dad will say anything about the breach, but secretly, I envy Brother Mordecai. I don’t see the point in mindless rituals. We only ever taste one bite before seasoning our food. If we were honest, we’d try everything before deciding on seasoning, as logically each component could require different amounts of salt and pepper, but I keep these heretical thoughts to myself. Dad ignores him.
The missionary points at the roof. “Surely, you’ve received the Vatican’s communique about the star?”
“The Scriptures are clear.” My father has made a career out of ignoring others. “Only angels and demons inhabit the heavens.”
Mordecai wipes his mouth with a cloth napkin. Being an itinerant missionary, he’s supposed to call on us regularly, but we haven’t seen him for almost six months.
“On the contrary,” he says. “The Scriptures hint at a divine realm extending well beyond that of mere angels.”
Napkins are typical of the contradiction that is life in the African jungle. We’re in an old colonial home with glaring white walls and a high roof. Fans turn slowly on the ceiling, giving the illusion of circulating air to cool the room. Monkeys scream in the trees just beyond the windows, struggling to compete with the incessant noise of millions of insects swarming through the night, and yet here we are observing etiquette as though we were dining in The White House.
Brother Mordecai replaces his napkin. “Ezekiel speaks of the cherubim and the seraphim—creatures other than angels—creatures that did not originate on Earth—giving us insights into a celestial order far beyond that of Michael, Gabriel and Lucifer. It could be that the heavens have as much diversity as life here on Earth!”
I’m loving this. It isn’t often my father gets flustered, and we’ve all seen the star. There’s no ignoring it—a brilliant white light sitting high above us, visible from twilight till dawn, shining directly overhead—stationary at the zenith of the heavens—the highest point in the night sky. It’s the one star that never moves. The Sun, Moon, and planets, the stars of Orion and Pleiades, they all drift through the sky each night, slowly rolling from east to west, but not this star. Like the missionary, it’s defiant.
My father adopts a defensive tone, using language far too formal for the jungle. “Ezekiel is not a book I’ve oft read.”
“You should,” Mordecai says between bites, talking with his mouth full and no doubt infuriating my father even more. Having quietly watched Brother Mordecai for almost an hour since he arrived, I don’t think he intends to challenge my father’s authority. He seems oblivious to the intrusion he’s created with just these few words, but the silence that follows drives the point home.
Sweat runs down my neck. Insects buzz around the gas lantern beside the open window. The only electricity we have comes from generators and depends on erratic diesel shipments from Tanzania, so most of our lighting and cooking is wood-fired or uses gas bottles dragged overland by traders.
Outside, natives sit around a campfire, tossing dried animal dung onto the flames to ward off mosquitoes. The fire crackles. Flames reach for the stars. Glowing embers rise into the night. The villagers are talking, laughing, yelling. Someone’s singing. To me, they’re irrepressibly happy, which is a stark contrast to how I feel.
“Haven’t you wondered?” Brother Mordecai pauses, pointing with his fork, yet another breach of etiquette. “Why here? Why is it hovering over the Democratic Republic of the Congo? What do they want with the jungle?”
They.
My father glances at me, but his eyes quickly return to our guest. I suspect he’d like to send me from the table as I’ve asked the same question only to be rebuffed. If he could, he’d get rid of me, but he doesn’t want his disdain to become too apparent. Such a reaction would be indecorous. Sending me away would raise awkward questions.
“What about you, Josh?”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. You’re the future. Your father and I—we do what we can. We pray. We teach. We minister and help the locals. And yet we are but a single generation. It is you and your friends who hold the future. What do you think of our visitors?”
My father would never speak to me like this.
“I—I don’t know.”
“But you must have thought about them? Sitting up there, looking down on us in the African jungle. What do you think they’re looking at?”
“The birds,” I say. “Or gorillas.”
He nods, chewing a piece of chicken and thinking for a moment before speaking again. “Perhaps that’s it. Perhaps there’s something they want from the Congo. The equator runs all the way around the world—through the Atlantic, parts of South America, the Pacific, Indonesia, the Indian Ocean. Even here in Africa it passes through Kenya, Uganda, Gabon, and Somalia. Maybe Josh is right. Maybe there’s something right here in the Congo they want. We do have the last of the wild gorillas.”
“Maybe.” Dad is trying to bury the discussion. Somewhat conveniently, his eyes stare down at his food, but he’s not hungry. He picks at his plate.
“You should read Ezekiel.” Brother Mordecai points at me with his knife, which to my father’s mind is an even more unforgivable than using his fork as a pointer. “You really should. It’s fascinating. Hmmm, here, listen to this.” He pulls a small Bible from his back pocket and places it on the table. The spine is broken, causing the book to fall open somewhere near the middle. The tiny margins have impossibly small writing—like the scratchings in a cave, only in blue pen as well as an ultra-fine pencil. There are numerous verses underlined in red. Several sections have been highlighted in fluorescent yellow. I feel as though I can read my father’s mind—this is no way to treat the Word of God. The missionary pushes a few pages brutally to one side, creasing the paper to prevent it flipping back.
“Yes, this is it. Listen to this, straight from the Holy Writ...
and their appearance was like burning coals of fire, and like the appearance of lamps: it went up and down among the living creatures; and the fire was bright, and out of the fire went forth lightning.”
He stops reading, looking at me as though the conclusion should be obvious. My father shifts in his seat.
“Wild, huh? And that’s right here in God’s Word.”
“We focus on the New Testament,” my father says.
“But it’s all true, right? Haven’t you thought about this section? Haven’t you wondered about it?” Dad shakes his head, but the missionary is nothing if not zealous. “If you lived in those times, how would you describe a spaceship?”
“Now, Mordecai.” My father raises his hand in exasperation, wanting to be heard. “That’s nothing but speculation.”
“This is Ezekiel.” Mordecai is too excited to notice my dad’s reluctance. “This is the testimony of Scripture. Listen... Their legs were straight, and the soles of their feet were round; and they sparkled like burnished bronze.”
My father sighs, saying, “It makes no sense,” which is a stunning admission from him.
“Yes. It makes no sense if we’re describing a person or an animal. But this could be a description of the Lunar module setting down on the Moon. Think about that—thousands of years ago, Ezekiel described something that only now makes sense. That’s cool.”
“Mordecai.” Dad is not comfortable with this conversation, but I’m soaking it up. Ever since the star appeared, I’ve wondered. I’ve wanted answers. ‘Just because,’ is not a reason. ‘Don’t get distracted,’ doesn’t satisfy my curiosity. As much as Dad wants me to focus on here and now, it’s there and tomorrow that drives me on. Isn’t that true of all humanity? Has anyone ever really been satisfied with here and now? We’re restless. We long for adventure. Change scares my father because he’s afraid of the future, but for a teen like me, the unknown is exciting.
“The wheels within wheels.” Mordecai gestured with his hands, waving them in a circular motion.
“Now, Mordecai—”
“Listen, brother. Listen to the written Word… a whirlwind came out of the north, a great cloud, and a fire infolding itself, and a brightness was about it, and out of the midst thereof as the color of amber, out of the midst of the fire… and their appearance and their work was as it were a wheel in the middle of a wheel.”
Brother Mordecai looks up at my father as though those words alone are enough to convince him. When Dad shrugs, he continues.
“Surely, you’re curious. We read about this back in seminary. What does it mean? Why was it written? What was Ezekiel trying to tell us? He wrote that section for a reason. He wanted us to know about this encounter.”
Dad’s quiet.
“Nothing in Ezekiel’s world fits that description. Nothing. But what if he saw something that wasn’t from his world? What if he saw something from another world?”
My dad is stern. “Mordecai, I would have you refrain from filling my son’s head with such madness. This is nothing but speculation. Delusions.”
“A gyroscope.” Mordecai completely misses my dad’s comment. “Wheels within wheels, Jacob. Ezekiel was describing a gyroscope almost two and a half thousand years before it was invented!”
My father wipes his mouth with his napkin and pushes back from the table. Both the meal and the conversation are over. I take one last bite of chicken and get to my feet.
“You will get ready for bed,” my father says with a sense of determination that cannot be defied. I nod slightly and excuse myself. As I leave, I hear them arguing.
“Cardinal M’Butai is in Kisangani this week. Come with me, Jacob. Listen to him. He’s a good man. The church is embracing this. The Holy See says this is a catalyst for change.”
“I know my calling.”
“The church isn’t going to run from this. His Holiness is embracing the science.”
“I will have no more of this talk. Our mission is clear. We are here for the salvation of these people. No good can come from turning our eyes to the heavens.”
“Listen to yourself,” Mordecai says. “You would bury your head in the sand rather than accept that something wonderful, something marvelous, something miraculous is happening?”
“I bid you goodnight.”
“This is happening whether you like it or not.” The door slams. Brother Mordecai yells, “You cannot ignore this, Jacob! You can’t hide in the jungle forever!”
I brush my teeth, being sure to face the mirror squarely, making as though I have no other concerns. Definite strokes up and down, not side to side, being gentle on my gums but ensuring any food caught between my teeth is dragged out—just as I’ve been taught. As for the argument, I didn’t hear anything. Nothing. As expected, the bathroom door flies open and my father storms in. I keep brushing. I don’t care—it’s important he thinks that.
My father has always been on the outside of the church. I guess that’s how we ended up here, almost fifty miles of rugged muddy roads south of Kisangani, deep within the Congo. Raging rivers, impenetrable canopy, voracious insects, birds, monkeys, apes and leopards are our neighbors. Our parish consists of villagers, farmers, and occasionally a repentant poacher. Most of them only speak French and a muddle of local languages, but we’re teaching them English.
The star has been in our sky for almost two weeks. Everyone talks about it, mainly because we get a near constant stream of news snippets filtering down to us from the outside world. How much of it’s true, I don’t know. The tribesmen say it’s an omen, but they see ill in all change. When we arrived three years ago, we were blamed for bringing a famine.
From what we’ve heard, the church is divided on the issue, although Brother Mordecai would have us think otherwise. Contact with intelligent extraterrestrial aliens? Creatures that arose on some other planet? Around a strange sun? My dad’s right, it’s madness and yet somehow, it’s happening.
Not even Hollywood could spin the idea of aliens capturing an asteroid and moving it into orbit around Earth, and then just leaving it sitting there like a diamond in the sky. Nothing’s happening according to our schedule. It’s as though they’re ignoring us. There are no slick silver spaceships landing on the front lawn of The White House. No invasion. No buildings being blown up or alien death rays scorching our cities. Just a tiny pinprick of light high in the sky.
“I’m sorry you had to witness that.” My dad rests his hand on my shoulder. I keep brushing my teeth and shrug slightly. No big deal. He says, “I have to go to Ubandi to visit the sick. Asha will put you to bed.
I nod and spit into the sink.
My father isn’t a doctor, but he’s trained in first aid and once worked as a paramedic in Boston. He’s treated his fair share of gunshot wounds—mostly from people he knew when he was, somewhat ironically, a member of the Pagan’s motorcycle gang. On one hand, it’s surprising he ended up in the jungle with a teenage son, on the other, it’s right on-brand for him.
Nothing has ever been simple or clear cut for my dad, certainly not predictable. For him, discipline is the way to deal with demons. I think that’s why he’s so strict with me. He feels as though he needs to build a fence around me so I don’t end up like him. But I’m not him. I guess that’s hard for him to realize. He means well, but I feel as though I’m suffocating.
Around here, though, being a paramedic is like being a brain surgeon. Dad’s a miracle worker, although the medical aid he provides mainly consists of setting splints on broken limbs and cleaning out infected wounds. In the jungle, it’s impossible to keep sores clean and dry, so he ships in iodine by the crate load. Ubandi is a forty-minute drive across the mountains. He won’t be back until after midnight.
Once the sound of his diesel Jeep has blended in with the jungle noise, I creep to my bedroom window and peer outside. A black face stares back from the shadows below the windowsill. Pearly white teeth smile at me. Quietly, I lift the window and slip out into the night.
“I didn’t think you were coming.”
To me, Jana is the most beautiful teen in the world. Her hair has been plaited in tight cornrows winding across her scalp. Colorful beads hang from plaits at the back of her head. They knock against each other softly as she moves, which I find hypnotic. She’s wearing a traditional African dress, resplendent with color. Red, blue and yellow flowers have been meticulously embroidered on her black dress by her mom, spreading out from her collar like sunflowers. Both the sleeves and the dress itself are broad, catching the air and keeping her cool. Her dark skin glistens beneath the starlight.
I take her hand and she squeezes my fingers with a sense of strength I’ve never known in any other girl.
“We had a guest.”
“I saw him,” she says.
I sneak a kiss, leaning in and pecking softly at her cheek. Jana recoils slightly, leaving me feeling cold. I pause, unsure what to make of her reaction, but she responds to my impetuous advance by rushing in and kissing me briefly on the lips. Her kiss is almost a bump. Our noses squish and she pulls back as quickly as she came in, smiling, laughing.
Girls are strange. I’m not sure I understand Jana. There’s something mysterious about the way she reacts to me. It’s almost as though she’s as unsure of me as I am of her. Neither Jana nor I feel comfortable with the term ‘dating,’ and yet we want to be together. Is it the jungle? Is it that I’m the pastor’s son? Is it that I’m white? Forbidden love, though, carries its own allure.
“Come,” she says. “Raka has a television. He’s watching them on the news.”
Them. I’m not sure I’ll ever get use to that term.
“But how?” It’s not simply the lack of electricity or electronics that keeps us isolated from the outside world—television signals don’t reach this far into the jungle.
“He has a dish. He shipped it overland from Kinshasa.”
We creep away from the parsonage, staying in the shadows, leaving the neatly manicured grounds around the manse and cutting behind the church. Raka is a village elder and lives in a hut beside the river, so we sneak along the bank, trying to avoid being seen by the villagers, as word will surely reach my father.
3zekiel (First Contact) Page 1
