A laugh had slipped out of my lips. I couldn’t help it—something about my dreams being tied to the fate of the world was too much. There had to be cameras in the room. This had to be a joke.
“I’m serious,” he said.
“I can see that,” I muttered. Maybe it was the drink loosening me up.
“Come.” He took my arm hard enough to make me spill a few drops of scotch on his fancy rug. “I want to show you something.” His tone made me stop laughing. He pulled me to his desk and touched his wrist to conjure a real-life image. It looked like the exact same tech I’d seen at ISA.
“Watch this,” he said, “and we’ll see if it’s still funny. This video never went public.”
The image sprang into motion. Chris was walking in his white robe. His smile was as wide as the ocean. It looked like he was in a slum, somewhere like Bombay or Bangladesh, probably a migrant camp after the flooding. Children were all around him, wearing rags and reaching out for him, as if his touch could rinse off their dirt and poverty. He kept on smiling and handing out food.
The image started to shake. Chris and the children staggered, losing their balance. Chris’s face looked concerned, but then the shaking stopped and a moment later his perma-smile was back. He came to an older boy who stood in his path, holding up something. The screen spun and zoomed in on the paper the boy held, just as Chris took it in his hands.
My breath caught. It was a drawing of my dreams. The dragon was the same, and the man was standing before it. The setting was different, but everything else was just as I remembered it. Seeing the scenes from my mind take form on paper made it feel too real. How could this boy and I share the same vision? I took another drink.
Chris also took a sip, letting a moment of quiet hang in the air. He said softly, “I have seen dozens and dozens of these, from all over the world. I’d never seen anything like it before last year. Now they’re everywhere.” He was pointing behind me.
I turned around. One section of the bookshelves had spun open, revealing a gallery of drawings and paintings. Some were crude, like the poor boy’s hand sketch. Others were oil paintings. A few were digitally-made images. The locations were all different, but the dragon and the man were the same in every single one.
“We must have all seen something that gave us these same images,” I said. There was surely a reasonable explanation.
“Before your dreams, had you ever seen a creature like this springing from the earth?” Chris challenged.
“I’m not sure.” Just because I didn’t remember seeing it didn’t mean it hadn’t sneaked into my mind from somewhere.
“I think you are sure,” Chris said. “And how about the man? Recognize him?”
I nodded, trying to keep my face blank. “I’ve seen him before. Don Cristo, the most powerful man in the world.”
“And he showed up in dozens of dreams with this creature. What do you think that means?”
It had to be coincidence. “Maybe it means that a bunch of people saw the same movie or ad,” I shrugged, “you know, with the President of the UN and some dragon creature.”
He shook his head. He was not smiling. “These things do not happen by chance. We have been waiting for a Jewish boy from the Roeh line—a boy who has seen this vision in the Vatican. These things will come to be.”
“You’re serious,” I said. “You really believe this? You know how crazy it sounds?”
“It’s only crazy if it’s not true. But this is true.”
His certainty was unnerving. Did all of his underground order believe this? Did Naomi? It made sense that they would hide behind the façade of a megachurch with the stamp of government approval. “If it were true,” I said, “wouldn’t you be trying to tell the world?”
“That’s not my role, Elijah. You look at me as if I’m the same man who preaches on broadcasts, as if I’m a demagogue in this religious business for the fame and fortune. Good!” He sipped his scotch, and his smile was back. “That’s how most look at me, and that’s how I want it.” He raised his glass to me. “Cheers to the true things, the things under the surface.”
“Cheers,” I said, more confused than ever. As our glasses clanked, I noticed the translucent ring on his thumb, just like Bart’s. Who were these people?
He finished his drink in one big swallow, and I did the same. “Dinner calls,” he said, studying me. “Tonight, no more talk of this conversation, or of what you saw here, okay?”
“Fine,” I answered. I had a feeling I wouldn’t get answers to my questions anyway. What I really wanted to know was Chris’s motive. Was he just trying to unnerve me, or did he and his order actually think I was special? And could my growing knowledge of this order be used against me? The biggest secrets never stayed safe for long.
He led us out of the library, away from his collection of disturbing drawings.
We rejoined Naomi and Bree in the dining room. Naomi’s warm voice welcomed us into casual conversation. We talked of Chris and Bree’s children and other light topics as we ate. Chris never hinted at what he’d shown me, but the images kept tumbling through my mind.
Naomi and I said our goodbyes and left the mansion for the Cathedral. If what Chris had said was any indication, I could only imagine what I’d hear from Bart.
WHEN WE TOOK our seats in Bart’s crammed, medieval office, I felt almost comfortable. Maybe it was the scotch and the dinner resting in my belly, or maybe it was just being away from Chris. I could deal with Bart’s craziness, or so I thought.
“You had the dream again?” Bart asked, his face glowing in the candlelight. His silver goatee and hair gleamed like sickles.
I nodded. I had vowed to myself that I would keep my words to a minimum. The goal was to satisfy Naomi. Besides, it was Bart’s turn to talk.
“I was in it this time,” Naomi volunteered. She sat beside me, on the edge of her chair as if she were about to watch a thriller. No one had brought popcorn.
“What did the man say?” Bart asked.
“He did not talk much,” I answered. “How did you know he spoke?”
He ignored my question. “What did he say?” he repeated.
“He told Naomi not to speak.”
“What else?”
“He introduced himself and asked me to call him Don.”
“Abaddon?”
I had already forgotten that name, but Bart was right. Had he heard that from the others who had similar dreams? “Yeah, Abaddon,” I said. “Kind of sounds like an alien’s name.”
“Did you have any contact with him? Touch his hand?”
“No, I woke up before that.”
Bart sighed and leaned back in his chair. He gazed up at the ceiling, where plaster was peeling and left odd shadows in the candlelight. His lips whispered something I could not hear. Then he leaned forward again and stared at me.
“Don’t ever let him touch you.” Bart rubbed his goatee as he spoke. “Elijah, you’re going to have to be more open with me, but I suppose it’s time for me to be more open with you, right?”
I hesitated before answering. It was not the kind of question with an easy answer. I had not bargained for any soul-bearing honesty from the crazy old monk. Naomi should have promised a kiss for that.
“You ever wonder why Naomi stays so quiet here?” Bart asked. Naomi smiled, but something seemed to be making her nervous. “She has a high calling,” Bart continued. “She is on a mission. A mission to bring you—”
“Enough!” Naomi jumped to her feet. Bart cowered back in his chair. “Be honest about his dreams,” she said, “and nothing more tonight.”
Bart looked like a puppy caught peeing on the floor. He nodded slowly.
Naomi smoothed her dress and sat back down. I had never seen her speak with such force. Aisha’s warning haunted me again. What mission was Bart talking about? Where was Naomi trying to bring me?
“My mission,” Naomi said, putting her hand on my knee, “is to be with you now while we learn more about these
dreams, to get some sleep tonight, and to pass our test tomorrow.” She could probably see that I was not convinced.
“And tomorrow night?” I asked. Then we’d be on my terms. I put my hand over hers, and she did not pull away.
“Yes, tomorrow night.” She smiled. “We’ll talk more, at your secret location.”
“Good, good,” Bart interrupted. “Shall we get on with the story of your dreams?”
“Okay,” I answered. The ticking clock behind Bart’s desk showed 9:30 pm.
“This is a long story, a historical story.” He chewed his lower lip with nervous excitement. “I’m afraid it’s much too long for one night.”
“Just an overview,” Naomi said. “We can always come back to learn more. We have to be fresh for a test tomorrow.”
“I will talk fast,” Bart agreed. “Interrupt with any questions.” He looked down at his desk and began tapping his fingers on a paper in front of him. “Where to begin, where to begin?”
His fingers stopped tapping. He leaned forward, folded his hands, and spoke to me. “It starts on an island in the Mediterranean, exactly two thousand years ago. The island was Patmos. It was not a place you wanted to be. There may have been beautiful days there, with views of the sea and a gentle breeze, but the Romans used the island as a prison. Only, it was not a prison for murderers and thieves. Those prisoners would do just fine in the grave or in a quarry outside the Empire’s capital. This island was a prison for the worst threats to the Empire—traitors, demagogues, and zealots. These were the types the Romans could not risk having around others, or even killing. They fomented opposition. They stirred up disobedience. Romans could accept anything but that.
“And so the Romans could not accept a man named John. He was one of the men who had followed Jesus. In our faith, we call him an apostle. Are you familiar with him?”
“I’ve heard of Jesus,” I said, maybe a little flippant.
Bart took a deep breath. “I’m not looking to waste your time or mine.” It seemed he didn’t like my tone.
“And I’m not looking for a sermon about Jesus.” Maybe Naomi wouldn’t like my tone either, but I didn’t like where Bart was heading. “So we Jews killed him and you Gentiles worship him. Millions have died because of it. I thought our world had gotten beyond that. We agree to disagree about his or anyone else’s divinity. Jesus was a wise dude, a prophet, a rabbi, a lunatic, whatever. Nothing else to say. Good enough?”
“I’ll let you be the judge of that. I asked you a question.” It seemed Bart’s thick frame had a backbone in it. “Are you familiar with John?”
“Lennon? Yeah, he was a big deal a century ago.”
Bart did not look amused. “To understand your dreams, you’re going to need to learn more. I am trying to help.”
He folded his hands over his belly and took another deep breath. “As I was saying, John was an apostle, and after Jesus died, John and others helped spread the word and the group of believers grew. They were like the Jews, refusing to accept the pantheon of Roman gods. The Romans could tolerate anything but an exclusive faith in a single God, kind of like the world today. For many years this group of Christians was a bunch of gnats hardly worth swatting. They sent letters between their tiny churches and their numbers grew. Eventually the gnats started to annoy Caesar. The Romans began killing the Christian leaders. They hanged one of them on an upside down cross. They cut off another one’s head. They bludgeoned others with stones.
“Well, they tried to kill John, too, but he kept surviving. Legend says they dumped him in boiling oil but he lived. Then they tried something different. They shipped him off to Patmos. There he would be out of sight, out of mind, or so the Romans thought. I imagine John on Patmos was like a retired rock star at rehab.”
Bart stopped as I let out a laugh.
“Rock star?” I asked.
“Rock star,” he said with a smirk. Then his face grew serious—as serious as the skull on his desk. “There was nothing pretty or funny about it,” he continued. “John craved friends and community, and his aging body could not handle the slave labor. His body bent and broke and burned under the hot Patmos sun. His mouth would be dry as the Sahara after a day of hauling stones on his back. After weeks of this work, John’s body gave out. The Romans had gotten all they could from him, so they threw him into a guarded cave. They brought him water and flat bread once a day, just enough to keep him alive. He had lost everything, everything but his faith. He clung to his memories of Jesus like a baby clinging to its mother. He believed his faith would sustain him when nothing else would.
“Now, in this dark and miserable place, and with that pinprick of hope, John began to see things. He began to have dreams. He had visions. He saw beasts and dragons. He saw the earth splitting and cities crumbling. He saw the heavens opening. These were the kinds of things that would drive a normal man mad, but not John. He believed these visions were gifts from the Lord—glimpses into either the possible or the symbolic future.
“Not long after the visions began, a group of his supporters rescued him. They sailed to the island of Patmos in the dead of night, knocked out the guards, and took John into hiding. He told them all that he had seen and heard, and they wrote it down, getting the words just right. That was 66 AD, two thousand years ago.”
“So…?” I’d done my part and listened. It wasn’t clear what any of this had to do with me.
“So you’re interested?” Bart had his big hand on an open book on his desk.
I glanced at Naomi. She had been quiet the whole time, but she still had not pulled her hand away from mine. She smiled at me now and squeezed my hand assuringly.
“It’s an interesting story,” I said.
“It’s much more than a story.” Bart picked the book up from his desk. “Here is what John wrote: Then I saw an angel coming down from heaven, holding in his hand the key to the bottomless pit and a great chain. And he seized the dragon, that ancient serpent, who is the devil and Satan, and bound him for a thousand years, and threw him into the pit, and shut it and sealed it over him, so that he might not deceive the nations any longer, until the thousand years were ended. After that he must be released for a little while.” Bart looked up at me with an edge in his eyes. “Who is the devil and Satan?”
“I have no clue,” I said. I didn’t mention that I doubted the devil even existed.
“You have every clue, because you have seen him.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“That’s why you’re here!” Bart suddenly clapped his hands. “Were you listening to me?”
“Yeah,” I said, annoyed.
“I thought you were supposed to be a smart young man,” Bart challenged. “Have you never heard the name Abaddon before?”
“Other than my dream? No, I haven’t. Why?”
“Listen to these words of John: They have as king over them the angel of the bottomless pit. His name in Hebrew is Abaddon.” Bart looked at me expectantly. “You’re Jewish, right? Didn’t you learn Hebrew?”
“A little, years ago.” My mother had taught me, but those memories were dim. “So you’re saying the man in my dream is the angel of the bottomless pit?” I would have found that amusing, except my dreams left little room for amusement.
“Yes!” Bart clapped his hands again. “Don’t you see?”
I shook my head no. “If you made me guess, I would’ve picked the dragon.”
“Our time is almost up, so I will be as clear as I can be.” Bart grabbed a plain wooden cross from his desk and held it up to me. He spoke with reverence. “The devil, Satan, Abaddon, and whatever else this man has been called—he was bound, but he will be unbound and released for a little while. Some of his spirit enters a man, some of it is the pure, chaotic evil of a dragon. You have seen the beginning of what is to come. When he is unleashed, nothing else will matter. The world will be devastated. Earthquakes, storms, meteors, you name it.”
“You know when this will happen?” Naomi asked wi
th a touch of awe.
“No one knows,” Bart said, “but I think it will be soon, very soon, this year, I believe. My order holds secrets. The secrets reveal signs. The signs hint at the time. But about that day or hour no one knows, not even the angels in heaven.”
“Are we done?” I had heard enough and was feeling drained. I stood without waiting for an answer. It was a relief to be out of the stiff wooden chair.
“For now.” Bart rose, walked around his desk, and opened the door. “But we will talk again, for you will have more dreams, Elijah.”
Was that a threat?
“Bye Bart.” Naomi put her slender arms around the priest’s wide and round shoulders.
“Bye Naomi, you watch over him.” He winked at her.
We were halfway out of the cathedral before I asked Naomi if Bart was always that crazy.
“Yes,” she said, pausing to look at me, “and crazier yet, so far he’s always been right.” She put her hand softly on my shoulder. “Thank you, Elijah.” Her face, her lips—they were beautiful as she spoke. “I know this is strange, but it means a lot that you heard Bart out. It’s probably hard for you to believe, but if he’s right, wouldn’t that be worth knowing?”
That was hard to deny, but there was no way Bart was right. “I guess so,” I shrugged off her question, “but I’m certain about one thing: you’re worth knowing even if you have some rather unusual friends.”
“And you’re worth knowing even if you have some rather unusual dreams,” she replied.
Touché, I thought. I did not say anything else about Bart or my dreams that night. I wouldn’t question Naomi’s faith if she wouldn’t question my lack of it. Besides, I had earned tomorrow’s date.
Next I just needed to ace an exam.
FRIDAY, JANUARY 8. Test day.
Silent, intense delivery.
Instructor Wade had left those final words of guidance for the five of us. We had been told little of what this test would require, but we were to expect the unexpected, to stay silent unless commanded to speak, and to deliver results. He said we all had a good chance of passing, but there were no promises, and no preparation would help.
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