Fire Of Heaven 03 - Fire of Heaven

by Bill Myers

  The question nearly stopped him, but he pushed ahead. “I’m not ready.”

  “The installation is in three days. When will you be ready?”

  He gave no answer.

  “We could fly to Jerusalem. I could pull a few strings, maybe arrange a public face-to-face. Shoot, we might even be able to stage a debate if —”

  “No!”

  And still she dogged him. “Okay, then we could make that tape I’ve been asking for, broadcast it over GBN, and —”

  “No!”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not the one … I can’t do stuff like that.”

  “Brandon?”

  “It’s not me.”

  Growing out of breath, she slowed to a stop. “Brandon?”

  “Leave me alone!”

  “Brandon!”

  But he kept walking, practically running, doing anything he could to get away from her. But the truth remained. And it would remain, gnawing away at him the rest of the day … and on into the night.

  CHAPTER 14

  SOMETIMES DEATH RUSHES IN like a flood, sometimes it trickles in unnoticed. For Brandon both cases were true. The first death, the flood, had hit him with the TV broadcast back in L.A. The trickle death had slowly seeped in as he traveled the villages of Turkey until, suddenly, he was over his head and drowning at Sart. Yes, he had received insight. Yes, he had learned truths to warn the bride. But, at last, he understood who he would have to oppose in order to proclaim those truths. That’s when he realized how absolutely unqualified he was.

  And that’s when he had given up.

  It’s not that he was rebelling against God. It was just a cold hard fact. There was no way he could step up and take on the world’s most powerful organization. Would the Lord be disappointed? He didn’t know. But he did know it was not his fault that God had picked the wrong person for the job.

  His tears, his protests, and yes, his shouting at the Lord, had continued throughout yesterday afternoon and on through the night. Pacing, yelling, crying, raging … until he was entirely spent. Now there was only fatigue … and a sad, melancholy peace. There was something peaceful about being dead.

  He was sitting on one of a half-dozen stone sarcophagi strewn about the tiny ruins of Philadelphia. Except for an occasional puttering moped on the street behind him and the distant shouts of children playing, the morning was still. The mulberry trees offered shade from the relentless sun as well as a haven for a family of doves cooing in its branches.

  Funny, a month ago he’d dreamed about taking on the world for God. Now he realized he was unqualified to do anything except give up. But that was okay. He’d tried, he’d put up the good fight. He simply didn’t have what it took. In time, maybe Sarah would return to him, though he wondered what he could possibly offer in comparison to the great Lucas Ponte. In time, someone else would warn the church about her need to prepare for Christ’s return. In time, someone else would stand up against this new Imperial Cult.

  But it wouldn’t be him. That much was certain. For him, it was over. It was painful, yes. It left him numb, of course.

  But it was over.

  The sun continued to rise and the day grew hotter. More out of habit as well as some curiosity, Brandon eventually pulled out his pocket New Testament and flipped it open to the sixth letter, the one addressed to the church that had inhabited these ruins.

  And, after a long pause, he began to read:

  To the angel of the church in Philadelphia write:

  These are the words of him who is holy and true, who holds the key of David. What he opens no one can shut, and what he shuts no one can open. I know your deeds. See, I have placed before you an open door that no one can shut. I know that you have little strength, yet you have kept my word and have not denied my name. I will make those who are of the synagogue of Satan, who claim to be Jews though they are not, but are liars — I will make them come and fall down at your feet and acknowledge that I have loved you. Since you have kept my command to endure patiently, I will also keep you from the hour of trial that is going to come upon the whole world to test those who live on the earth.

  I am coming soon. Hold on to what you have, so that no one will take your crown. Him who overcomes I will make a pillar in the temple of my God. Never again will he leave it. I will write on him the name of my God and the name of the city of my God, the new Jerusalem, which is coming down out of heaven from my God; and I will also write on him my new name. He who as an ear, let him hear what the Spirit says to the churches.

  The words were comforting. There were no rebukes, no commands, nothing that needed to be repented of. Just encouragement and the promise that if he held on to what he had, God would reward him. No problem there — when you’ve got nothing left, hanging on isn’t hard.

  There was, however, one phrase that stuck in his mind. He tried to dismiss it, but it kept returning. “I have placed before you an open door that no one can shut.” Of course the promise could have merely been for the church here, or for today’s church in general. But, somehow, he suspected there was more. Then again, what purpose did an open door serve for a dead man with dead dreams and dead hopes?

  The answer came back just as clearly, just as sadly …

  None.

  “Brandon …”

  He glanced up to see Tanya wind her way through the ruins toward him. They’d dropped him off earlier that morning and had left to check into a hotel. He was grateful for the ride from Sart to Philadelphia, but could have done without her continual persistence for him to go to Jerusalem and confront the Cartel … or to at least make a video that she could broadcast. On the other hand, Tanya could persist all she wanted. Another nice thing about being dead is, persistence doesn’t matter.

  “I’ve got something for you.” She approached, waving a piece of paper. “I printed it up from the Internet. I don’t recognize the name, but she sent it to you in care of my e-mail.”

  “She?”

  “Yeah.” Tanya handed him the paper. “Somebody by the name of Morris — Gerty Morris.”

  The name startled him, and she saw it. “You know her?”

  He nodded, then looked down at the paper she had given him. How could she have known? How, over a year ago, did Gerty know who to send this through to get it to him? Both a chill and a sense of anticipation started to rise in him. It was happening again. He could feel it. The fear. The excitement. Already he was starting to breathe harder. His spirit was quickening. Once again, God was making his presence known. There was no mistaking it. More importantly, He was about to make His will known.

  My dearest Brandon:

  This is gonna be my last letter to you. My prayer is that you’ve made your journey safely and that now you’re preparing to be doing battle.

  Brandon almost laughed. Prepared to do battle? If there was one time in his life he was unready to fight anybody for anything, it was now. He continued reading:

  ’Cause it’s only when you’re the weakest and the most defeated, that you’re the most pliable in His hands. It’s only when your vision is dead, that God’s vision comes alive.

  Brandon gripped the letter more tightly.

  I have told you of the four steps to fulfilling your dream. First you received it, then you twisted it into your version of greatness, and now, at long last, it’s dead. But it is only dead as Abraham’s dream of Isaac was dead on the altar, as Joseph’s dream of ruling his brothers was dead in prison, as our Lord’s dream to save the world was dead on the cross, as Moses’ dream of freeing his people was dead when he fled to the wilderness.

  The words began to blur from the moisture welling up in his eyes. Were such things possible? Had this been planned all along?

  Unlike Moses, your time in the wilderness was short. But your death is just as thorough. God commanded Moses to throw down his staff so He could transform it. But, just as importantly, he ordered Moses to pick it back up. You are God’s now. Brandon Martus is dead. His dream is dead. His
call is dead. No one can be harming or hurting you ’cause no one can harm or hurt a dead man. No one can be killing you ’cause no one can kill a dead man. All that you are is Christ’s … and all that is Christ’s is yours.

  Now it is time for the fourth and final step. Now you must be picking up your staff. You have received the call. You have distorted it. You have watched it die. Now, you must let Him resurrect it.

  He has set an open door before you, Brandon Martus, that no one can close. All you got to do is walk through it. The seed has fallen to the ground and died. Now it is time for it to sprout and bear fruit. Your work is complete. Now, pick up your staff and watch as God completes His.

  Good-bye, my brother. I look forward to meeting you again.

  GM

  A full minute passed before Brandon looked up. He did not bother hiding the tears streaming down his face.

  “Hey.” Tanya reached out and touched his knee. “Are you okay?”

  He nodded and quietly whispered, “Yeah.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.” He forced a grin. “For a dead man, I couldn’t be better.”

  Sarah raced across the courtyard. Even from this distance she could hear the screaming. She ran up the outside steps and sprinted toward the men’s quarters, not slowing until Eric’s room came into view. Outside, a handful of disciples had gathered. Others remained below in the courtyard. Both groups stood in silent concern as, inside, the mother and son were embroiled in a terrible fight.

  That’s why Katherine had called her. Eric was out of control. He had to be stopped. Given his history of violence, Sarah had grabbed her medical kit, including some Versed, a powerful sedative, and come as fast as she could. The guard stationed outside the door recognized her and stepped aside. Sarah nodded, took a moment to catch her breath, then pushed open the door.

  The room was a war zone. Torn posters, broken chairs, even the computer screen was smashed. She spotted Katherine first and then Eric. He was holding two men against a wall by their necks. Their feet dangled just off of the ground.

  “Eric!” Katherine was screaming. “Eric, let them go! Eric!” She turned to Sarah, her face wet with perspiration. “I told him we were leaving! I told him, but he refused. He said we’re going to Jerusalem!”

  Sarah looked at the two men pinned against the wall. Their eyes bulged; their faces glowed a bright red. And Eric, far too scrawny to be exerting this type of strength, was a study of deep concentration.

  “You’re killing them!” Katherine screamed. “Eric, let go! Eric!”

  Sarah took a couple steps closer.

  “I brought them in to help us pack,” Katherine cried. “That’s when he went crazy. Eric!” she shouted. “Eric!” She turned back to Sarah. “It’s like he doesn’t hear me, like he’s not even there!”

  Sarah nodded. She’d reached the same conclusion. Eric’s rage, his superhuman strength, the look in his eyes. There was no question in her mind that it was time to make her move. She’d seen Brandon do this a half-dozen times at the clinic. Sometimes she’d helped. But this time she was all on her own. She took another breath, then shouted, “Heylel!”

  Eric showed no signs of hearing. For the briefest moment Sarah thought she was mistaken. She cleared her throat and tried again, this time with greater authority. “Whoever you are … I order you to stop this!” Still no response. “In the name of Jesus Christ, I order you to stop it, now!”

  In an incredible display of strength, Eric slowly brought the men down until their feet touched the floor. But he did not let go of their throats. And he still did not acknowledge Sarah’s presence.

  “Release them completely!” Sarah shouted. “I order you to release them, now!”

  The hands withdrew from the throats, and the men slipped to the ground, coughing and gasping for air.

  Then, ever so slowly, Eric turned to face her. She braced herself, expecting the worst. She was not disappointed. His eyes locked onto hers with such hatred that she gave an involuntary gasp. His lips curled back into a maniacal grin.

  Katherine started toward him. “Eric —”

  “No.” Sarah held out her hand to stop her. “Don’t. That’s not Eric.” She turned back to the boy. “Are you?”

  The grin broadened.

  “You’re the one they call Heylel, aren’t you?”

  At last the mouth moved. “Very good.” It was still Eric’s voice but much deeper and more guttural. “But tell me, Dr. Martus, who exactly are you?”

  Sarah swallowed, unsure of the question.

  Katherine took a step closer. “What have you done with Eric? Where’s my boy?”

  The head swiveled in her direction. “At the moment he is preoccupied with more private instruction.”

  Katherine bristled and took another step toward him. “What are you doing to my son?”

  Sarah touched her arm. “Easy …”

  But Katherine didn’t notice. Her voice trembled as she spoke. “What do you want from him?”

  “Why, the same as you do, Katherine. I simply want his happiness.”

  The answer appeared to set her back. “How?” She pointed toward the men rubbing their throats, struggling to their feet. “By using him to destroy people? By turning him into some kind of monster?”

  “Oh, but Katherine, he has already become that.”

  The statement made her shudder. The voice continued. “But you mustn’t blame me, my dear. Turning your son into a monster was not my doing. That was the hand of your scientists. I am merely completing spiritually what they had begun physically.”

  Katherine’s trembling grew worse. The voice continued. “It is the perfect marriage, don’t you think? Man’s desire to become God … joining forces with mine?”

  Katherine bit her lip.

  He continued. “And the two shall become one.”

  “No …” She gasped. “That’s … my son.”

  And still the voice continued, relishing the torture. “Not anymore, Katherine Lyon. He is mine.”

  “No …”

  “Oh, yes. Your little boy barely exists. He’s given me nearly everything. After all, he understands the importance of our goal and —”

  “Goal?” Sarah had seen enough. She quickly stepped between the two. “What is your goal? What are you going to do with him?”

  The eyes shot to hers. “Why, rule the world, of course.”

  The candidness surprised her. But he wasn’t finished.

  “Just as the Christ was the incarnation of your Oppressor, so Eric has become the incarnation of me.”

  Sarah went cold. “Who … who are you?”

  “I am the voice of reason, the Illuminated One. I am he who is committed to enlightening your planet and setting it free.”

  “Free? Of what?”

  “Of he who claims love, yet demands holiness. Of he who offers freedom, while demanding servitude.”

  “You’re … talking about God?”

  “I am speaking of Oppressor. He who cast me from heaven, who imprisoned my host upon your planet.”

  Sarah caught her breath. She’d encountered several demons but never one who made such boasts. When she finally found her voice, she repeated her question. “Who … are you?”

  “Oh, but Sarah, you know me.” The casual use of her name made her stiffen. “You’ve always known me.” Eric took a half step closer — his eyes focused so entirely upon her, their hatred so cold that she felt an icy embrace wrap around her chest, making it nearly impossible to breathe. “I was there when you put Suzie Burton into the hospital.”

  “What?”

  “You remember … that little bicycle incident?”

  The comment stunned her. “It … it was an accident.”

  “Yes, that is what you told your parents. That is what you told everybody. But you and I know better, don’t we?”

  Sarah’s face reddened as thoughts of her most embarrassing childhood moment filled her mind. “I was eight years old.”

&nbs
p; “You were not eight when you cheated your way through calculus to get that scholarship for Stanford.”

  Shame poured in on top of her embarrassment. “How did —”

  “I was there with you and your best friend’s boyfriend, in the backseat of his parent’s Nova. Remember?”

  More memories rushed in … along with other emotions — remorse, humiliation. The accusations came faster.

  “When you ‘borrowed’ that money from your mother’s purse, when you stole from your employer’s till. When you were so drunk at that frat party you didn’t even know who or how many young men —”

  “Stop it!”

  But Heylel didn’t stop. The blows came harder and more rapid. “I was there when Harrison was conceived —”

  “Harris —?”

  “Your baby boy. That’s what you were going to name him, remember?”

  Sarah was reeling. “I —”

  “I was there when you sacrificed him for grad school. I was in the abortion clinic when they reached inside of you —”

  “Please …” She gasped. “Stop …”

  “When they grabbed your baby’s skull with the forceps —”

  “Stop it!”

  “When you let them crush —”

  “Stop it!” She covered her ears. “I will not listen!”

  But the voice was also screaming inside her head. “I was there when you let them kill your baby boy, Sarah! When you sacrificed your only child for your selfish ambition!”

  There was that word again, like a blow to her chest. And still he spoke, driving each phrase home with a vengeance. “Ambition! That’s all you are, Sarah Weintraub. That’s all you’ll ever be!”

  She tried to answer, but she could barely breathe.

  “I was there when your ambition nearly killed Brandon, your own husband!”

  Mustering all of her strength, Sarah cried, “That’s history! I’m a Christian now! I’m forgiven!”

  “Are you?”

  “Yes …” She gasped. The words tumbled out by rote, using the last of her energy. “Christ died on the cross for my sins. I’m forgiven, I’m a new creature in Christ.”