* * *
Several hours passed, and across the world it was early evening. Vice Minister Styx Tertullian sat alone in a room, staring at the blurry shapes dancing in front of a VR-TV screen. There were no lights on, just the unfocused glow of the machine. He felt depressed. This entertainment room for the Bureau had been set up for executives to use on their breaks, but he was the only one in the entire building now, except for security personnel roaming the corridors. Everyone else had gone home.
A remote control had been built into an armrest of his chair. He pressed buttons, but got only more of the same. Everyone in the world wanted to know about the mysterious women who produced the stunning Holy Women’s Bible. The introduction to the book referred to reincarnated she-apostles, perhaps the strangest claim in the long history of world religion. It sounded more like creatures in a horror movie than reality. But millions of gullible people wanted to see these she-apostles in the flesh. The introduction was signed by Dixie Lou Jackson, Chairwoman of United Women of the World, the UWW. The public was clamoring to find out who she was.
News stories on Jackson were sketchy, and no one had yet stepped forth publicly to talk about her past. That was about to change, because Tertullian knew something about her from Bureau intelligence reports. He knew she’d been a prostitute, and so had at least one of the “she-apostles” featured in the Holy Women’s Bible—Mary Magdalene, in her original lifetime. He even came up with a phrase to counter the disinformation that the UWW was producing: “She-apostles—the figments of a whore’s imagination.”
Feeling his pulse race in anticipation, Tertullian glanced at his watch, then switched to the program he’d been waiting to see, the Tony Drew Show. It was a panel discussion featuring two participants, a mustachioed older man with a bald pate and a blonde young woman. The smooth-faced interviewer, Drew, sat in between them.
To Tertullian’s surprise, the program was already in progress. He glanced at his watch again. It showed the top of the hour, but must be running slow. Removing the timepiece, he tossed it toward a wastebasket across the room and hit it dead center, giving him only the smallest measure of satisfaction.
The older man was talking, his tone condescending and pedantic, like a tired school teacher. Beneath him a caption read:
Ronald Friese-Greene
State Department Official
“It’s obvious to anyone with half a brain,” he said, “that the Unholy Women’s Bible is a complete fabrication. Why, some of the—”
“Holy, not Unholy!” the woman interjected. A caption beneath her indicated:
Villial Luciano
University Professor
“But Madame, there is only one Holy Bible.”
“And only one Holy Women’s Bible.”
The moderator said, “I must inform you, Miss Luciano, that we’re getting thousands of responses on the worldwide net, and it’s only running twenty percent in favor of the Holy Women’s Bible. Most of the world believes it’s a fraud, and that the UWW is a crackpot organization.”
She bristled. “First of all, it is Ms. Luciano. Secondly, how many responses are you talking about?”
“Uh, three hundred twenty-four thousand.”
“How interesting, and what, pray tell, is the population of the world?”
“Seven billion, maybe eight. I’m not sure.”
With a toss of her long blonde hair she said, “Your tiny sample is meaningless.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“I would. Aside from the minuscule sample, isn’t it true that most of the responses came in by computer?”
“Mmmm, ninety percent, and the rest by fax and phone.”
“Consider this, then. Many of the women who can be helped by the Holy Women’s Bible don’t even own computers, phones, or fax machines.”
Tony Drew leaned forward. “Then why did the UWW publish it over the Internet?”
“Speed of dissemination. E-books were the best place to start, but it was only that, a start. Hardbound and softbound copies, as well as holo-recordings, are being distributed now, available free to everyone.”
“It’s all hogwash,” her opponent said, rubbing his pronounced chin. “From page one to the end. Every word of it.”
“And have you read the book, sir?” she inquired, in an erudite tone.
He cleared his throat. “Not directly, but reports reaching my desk indicate the events described in it could not possibly have occurred. The ridiculous assertion that twenty-four apostles attended The Last Supper, for example, and the claim that the male apostles were jealous of their purported female counterparts. Everyone agrees it’s all absurd, of course.”
“Keep it up,” Tertullian murmured to the television, because he had paid Friese-Greene a substantial fee to debunk the female bible. Now the young woman could be heard in the background, trying unsuccessfully to get in a word.
Friese-Greene, who had once been a radio announcer, kept talking, building up a righteous head of steam. In his dominant, resonant voice he quoted a number of biblical verses in rapid succession, and then another, “The only true word of God is in the Bible. Verse 7:17 of the Book of Matthew says that every rotten tree produces worthless fruit.”
“You’re misquoting!” Luciano screeched, so loudly that the camera cut away from Friese-Greene and focused on her. Her eyes were piercing. Her prim little chin quivered with anger. Over the protestations of her opponent she howled, “All of your quotes are distorted or taken out of context to suit your purposes. What about the rest of Matthew 7:17?”
“It is of no help to you.”
Tertullian groaned in displeasure as the woman continued to assert herself. “The entirety of Matthew 7:17,” she howled, “goes like this: ‘Even so every good tree bringeth forth good fruit; but a corrupt tree bringeth forth evil fruit.’”
“So what?” the older man said. “I don’t see—”
She was shrieking at him to be heard. “Don’t you get it? The UWW is a good tree producing fine fruit! Matthew 17:18 goes on to say, ‘A good tree cannot bring forth evil fruit—‘ Mister Friese-Greene, the framers of the Holy Women’s Bible accept the King James version of the Holy Bible for the most part, including the passage I’ve just quoted. Other passages have been corrected so that they more accurately reflect the loving attitude of Jesus toward women.”
“Corrected? What temerity! One does not correct the Holy Bible!”
“I’m not a member of the UWW; I’m just quoting what I read in their sacred book. Only portions of the Bible have been rewritten, those that are adverse to women, and counter to the actual teachings of Jesus Christ. According to the gospels of the she-apostles, political forces in the centuries after the crucifixion of Christ twisted the truth, altered scriptures to suit their purposes—their male purposes. The resurrected companions of Jesus are speaking the true word of God.”
Watching the debate from afar, Styx Tertullian wanted to press buttons on the remote control and blow off the blonde woman’s head, splattering it all over the camera lens. He also didn’t think much of Friese-Greene’s knowledge of the Bible, or his debating skills. He should he quoting from Revelation at the very end of The New Testament, that God would inflict plagues on any person adding to the gospels or taking anything away from them.
The sputtering Friese-Greene, an increasingly hapless and pathetic figure, finally attempted to assert his dominance by raising his voice as much as he could, so that he thundered over his opponent, that crafty little female demon. Smirking, she finally fell silent and allowed the roar of Friese-Greene’s voice to fill the studio and the speakers of every television set tuned to that channel. He looked like a red-faced fool. Finally he attempted to compose himself and asked, “What’s the name of that UWW leader—Johnson?”
“Dixie Lou Jackson,” the moderator said. He tugged at an earlobe.
“Whatever,” Friese-Greene snapped. “Why is she hiding? Who is she and what is her organization all about? Do you know, Ms.
Luciano?”
“Dixie Lou will answer for herself in due course,” came the reply, in the calmest of tones. “And as for the organization, the UWW seeks to further the cause of women, who have been downtrodden for centuries. The UWW deals with women’s issues.”
“What a pile of rot. Issues? Women have no issues! Your gender is always complaining, always whining, always crying about something.”
“A typical sexist comment,” Luciano said.
“And that’s a cheap shot,” Friese-Greene countered. “People like you use buzz-words to play on the emotions of women.”
“Another sexist comment,” she said. “You criticize women for having an abundance of emotions, but you seem entirely unable to carry on a rational conversation yourself.”
As Tertullian listened to the give and take, he dredged up a thought that occurred to him from time to time. If he could only figure out a way for humanity to get along without women he’d do it in a heartbeat.
Women are the Devil’s Breed.
He wondered when Friese-Greene would drop the bomb that Styx had sent with him. He seemed to be waiting too long. Then, as if the paid man could read the thoughts of the BOI leader, he said, “What about the fact that Dixie Lou Jackson worked as a prostitute on the east coast?”
“That’s a lie!”
“I have proof that it isn’t.” He held up a printed document that had been provided to him by the BOI, but which bore no marks to that effect. The camera zoomed in on it. The document, as far as Tertullian knew, was authentic, an arrest report on Jackson when she was twenty-one, including her fingerprints and three photographs.
“You’ve falsified that!” the woman protested.
“This report can be easily authenticated—unlike the fraudulent Holy Women’s Bible—which is why Jackson and her co-conspirators are hiding like rats.”
“I’m not a member of the UWW. In any event I’m certain they aren’t hiding from anyone.”
“Then why haven’t they surfaced? And why don’t they make the purported she-apostles available for inspection by neutral parties? Why is the UWW hiding the children that are so central to their claims?” He stared at the camera. “Dixie Lou Jackson, shame on you for manipulating and abusing children for your perverse purposes!”
“As I said, I’m not in the UWW, but I know they aren’t abusing anyone. They’re just striking back at male injustices.”
“Then come out and tell us what we want to know. Let us examine the children and question Jackson.” Friese-Greene stared into the camera. “Dixie Lou Jackson, come forth and face your accusers.”
“There are security concerns,” Luciano said. “People who oppose the BOI have been known to disappear.”
“Nonsense. If people have disappeared it’s by their own choice, with some nefarious design in mind.”
Luciano glared. Beads of perspiration glistened on her forehead. “Men have been murdering women for thousands of years, but from now on out that’s going to change. Women will no longer lie down and accept rape—in any form.”
“Mark my words, young woman, the Holy Women’s Bible is going to set womanhood back a thousand years. I’m not at liberty to reveal details yet, but the UWW’s so-called sacred texts are being examined at this very moment. There are grave inconsistencies, questions—”
“Why don’t I believe you?” Luciano said, with a sneer.
“I’ve been listening to both of you,” the moderator said, “and I’ve tried to be impartial. But I must agree with this gentleman to an extent.” The camera zoomed in on Tony Drew and he looked directly into it, saying, “Dixie Lou Jackson, where are you?”
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” Friese-Greene added.
Chapter 14
The destructive, catastrophic acts of men are endless. One has only to see a documentary of war, read a newspaper, or listen to the evening news. One has only to read history to see the centuries and millennia of violence. Wars are created by men, for men.
—The Reflections of Lori Vale (unpublished manuscript)
To Lori it seemed an odd juxtaposition of cultures as she watched three Arab women approaching her camp in the middle of the day, their arms laden with electronic equipment. She recognized Malia in the lead, carrying a flat-screen television receiver. One of her companions toted a satellite dish, and the other had control boxes and loops of wire and cable.
“Dixie Lou Jackson is about to go on the air,” Malia announced. “We thought you might like to see your enemy’s worldwide broadcast.”
Unaware of this development, Lori felt a surge of curiosity. “Thank you. We have a satellite television aboard the helicopter, but we don’t want to be tracked if we turn it on. You can get that working out here?”
With a smile, the woman said, “You doubt our proficiency?” Quickly, she added, “Just watch us.”
The desert women moved quickly, setting up the television receiver on a tarpaulin that the pilot had left on the sand. Only moments before, Rea Janeg had tested the engine and pronounced the helicopter fit for travel—although Lori had not decided to take off yet. She didn’t want to be detected by Dixie Lou or her companions.
In only a few moments, the old TV screen flickered to life. Malia operated a control device. “It’s searching for the most clear channel now,” she said. “Ah, here it is.”
On the screen, news reporters discussed the broadcast, which was scheduled to begin in only a few minutes.
* * *
The Chairwoman stood off to one side, watching a young female reporter and her small crew set up camera equipment in the dining tent. It was midday, the air warm and dry. Dixie Lou wore a black pants suit with a green-and-orange collar, the same outfit she’d worn in the escape from Monte Konos. It was clean, though, having been washed with sea water that had been desalinated with equipment on board the helicopter. Each day she showered in the processed water, too, and even though it was fresh she never quite felt clean from it.
“I’m so excited to finally meet you,” the reporter gushed. She had olive skin, and short brown hair. “I’ve long been an admirer of United Women of the World. I was even in a goddess circle last year, and used to wish I could be just like Amy Angkor Billings.”
“How nice,” Dixie Lou replied, concealing her displeasure at the remark.
“You replaced Amy?”
“Yes.”
“She retired?”
“You might say that,” Dixie Lou said, with inward glee. “Of course we can’t discuss internal, organizational matters. Privacy is essential to us.”
“So I’ve heard. Even with the release of the Holy Women’s Bible, I’m surprised you’re granting an interview.”
“Times are changing,” Dixie Lou said.
When all was ready, the two women sat in inflatable chairs, separated by a small table. A gray screen stood behind them. No windows or structural details were shown. The camera picked up the women in profile.
“Welcome to Global News,” the reporter said. “I’m Joanne Gazzara, broadcasting a live special report from somewhere in the desert, at the secret headquarters of Dixie Lou Jackson, who is with me now. Her aides brought me here blindfolded, and I’m not permitted to describe anything seen off-camera.”
“It’s nice to be here,” Dixie Lou said.
“Your new Holy Women’s Bible is an absolute sensation!” the reporter said. On her lap she held a glossy white paperback copy, with raised-gold lettering on it. Turning several pages she added, “Here in the introduction it says the she-apostles are alive today. Where are these special people?”
“Would you like to meet one?”
“Right now, you mean?”
The black woman nodded.
“An unexpected pleasure. Millions of people in our audience are waiting breathlessly!”
After gesturing to someone off-camera, Dixie Lou announced, “She’s being brought in now.”
A white-uniformed woman, with exotically dark features, came into view, car
rying a blonde-haired baby. The child had an oversized head in relation to the body, even for an infant.
* * *
Watching from her own encampment, Lori Vale shook her head. It was the fake Martha, and her eyes were dull and glazed over, undoubtedly from sedation. It was child abuse, pure and simple. The teenager seethed, wished she could do something to help the child. But she was helpless to do anything, except watch. . . .
* * *
“This is Martha of Galilee,” Dixie Lou said proudly, and then recited the concocted tale of her life: “In ancient times she was an apostle of Jesus Christ. Prior to that she’d been an employee of a wine shop in Jerusalem, working for her father. Upon hearing Jesus speak for the first time, she gave up her job and family and joined the holy entourage, even leaving her fiancée behind. Some said she wanted to marry Jesus, and that may have been her hope for awhile. But soon she realized that the holiest of men was not available for betrothal or any sort of physical relationship with a woman. Still, a bond of affection and trust formed between them, and Lord Jesus made her an apostle, one of the twenty-four.”
“That’s one of the most startling assertions of this book,” Gazzara said. “There are so many new stories here. I haven’t had time to read all of them yet, but I have some preliminary observations. You depict the fair sex in an entirely new, much more favorable light. There is no portrayal of the slavishly obedient wife here, or of the woman who cannot speak out in church, or of Eve as sinner and seductress, or of Mary Magdalene as a prostitute. In their time—the age of Jesus—decent, intelligent women were as important to the Savior as men.”
“As we will be in the future,” Dixie Lou said, “for all of humankind. Now that the message is out.”
“What do you have to say to the people who think you’re a crackpot? You’ve seen the opinion polls, I presume?”
“I have, and I could care less what people think of me personally, or of my organization. We do not seek approbation or popularity. When we compiled the Holy Women’s Bible we did it as a service to women. It was a labor of love by my devoted staff, collecting and organizing the remarkable stories of the twelve she-apostles. If modern women choose to accept these truths and take them to heart for their own good, that is to their benefit—but if the opposite happens, I cannot account for stupidity.”
The Lost Apostles Page 11
