The Final Summit

by Andy Andrews

  Once, on a European trip, David and Ellen had gone to the museum in Amsterdam dedicated to Anne, the twelve-year-old girl who, with her parents and friends, hid from the Nazis in the annex of an apartment building. There she had kept a diary that was later published, astonishing the world.

  That day, as they toured the tiny hiding place, David whispered to Ellen, pointing out the things he remembered— things he had seen when he had been there, with Anne Frank, on Thursday evening, October 28, 1943. Of course, Ellen didn’t believe him. Why on earth would anyone in their right mind have believed him? David grinned at the memory and swiped at the tears flowing down his face. “La la la la la la la laaaa.”

  So he had waited until the tour ended and approached the museum manager. Quietly, he asked the man if he would remove Anne’s diary from the glass case in the center of the room. There was no one there. It was closing time. David did not even want to touch it, he had said. He simply wanted to see it. The manager could stand with them, David had explained, and never take his hands off the book.

  Of course, the man had refused. When David did not relent and began begging for just one moment with the diary, the manager actually threatened to call the police. Ellen had not understood and was horribly upset, but when David pulled out his wallet and began peeling off American one-hundred-dollar bills, she grew quiet. Ellen had never seen him this way.

  David stopped when he had counted out two thousand dollars. The man looked briefly at the door, then at David. Quickly brushing the money into a pile, he nervously shoved it into his pocket. Swiftly, the manager stepped to the glass case and, with a key from his pocket, unlocked the cover. Reaching inside, he gingerly removed the red-orange, clothbound book.

  Glancing to the door, he said, “Hurry, please. What is it you want to see?”

  “Just turn the pages for us, can you?” David answered. “One at a time.”

  As he did so, Ellen held her breath while David removed something from a plastic bag in his back pocket. Within moments, David ordered, “Stop. Stop right there.”

  The man did not move as David slowly placed four small, lined pages, one by one, into the diary. The torn edges, the ink, and the handwriting matched perfectly. “Thank you,” David whispered to the manager as he removed the four fragments constituting the Fifth Decision from the tiny book. Gently, he led his stunned wife from the premises.

  “La la la la la la la la la,” David sang unevenly as he patted the little pages and situated them on the desk, just to the right of the parchment.

  Wiping his eyes with his handkerchief, David inhaled deeply to gain control. “La la la la la la!” he said forcefully. “Today I will choose to be happy.” In his speeches about the Seven Decisions for Success, he often expressed how unnatural this principle felt to him at first.

  From the beginning, “choosing to act happy” long before he felt anywhere near the mark was hard for David. But he knew—had seen the evidence proven beyond doubt many times—that Today I will choose to be happy was the single most powerful leadership tool that existed. And, oddly enough, it was the key to the financial fortune many people sought.

  Anne Frank was important to David for another reason. As he researched her life and death and the murder of millions just like her, David came to believe that people could not be reminded enough about that moment in time. In his speeches and interviews, David stated again and again that America and Europe especially must never forget the atrocities that had been allowed.

  David had studied history, and he knew the facts. Fewer than 10 percent of the German population had been actively involved in the Nazi rise to power. Fewer than 10 percent of the population of a modern, industrial nation had actually campaigned to give authority to a man who, only months before being elected, had been an army lieutenant.

  David studied public statements and speeches. He pored over government documents, election archives, and legislative decisions. The evidence was overwhelming and available to anyone with the click of a computer key: Adolf Hitler had risen to power during a time of economic uncertainty in a nation of people desperate for identity and longing for better times.

  This man of the common people—as Hitler had called himself—stood up, looked them in the eye, and lied. He promised more and better and new and different. He vowed rapid change and swift action. David studied the recorded words of every public address the Führer delivered. He assembled and recalculated numbers and lists of volunteers and voting archives. It had all been available. After all, the Third Reich maintained excellent records.

  David saw for himself, from the vantage point of his own generation, fewer than 10 percent of the people of one nation had worked to bring about Hitler’s “change.” What David could never understand is how the remaining 90 percent— doctors and teachers and ministers and farmers—did . . . what? Stood by? Watched? It shocked and frightened him.

  David knew that many of those people had turned their heads and, by not raising their voices, allowed the Holocaust to take place. Mothers and fathers closed their eyes and covered their ears and accepted their salaries, avoiding the truth that lingered over them like a serpent waiting to strike. And when the Nazis came for their children, it was too late.

  Wiping his eyes with both hands, David sniffed loudly and coughed a bit, clearing his throat. Lincoln’s decision—I will greet each day with a forgiving spirit—was not written on formal stationery. Examining it as he drew the paper from the tobacco pouch, David knew the sixteenth president had handwritten the powerful words while on the train to Gettysburg.

  He smiled, remembering Lincoln’s confusion that day when David had asked if he had written the Gettysburg Address on the train. After all, that had been the rumor for more than a century. “No,” the president had replied. “My speech for this occasion today was written back in Washington. On the train,” he said, handing David the Sixth Decision, “I was writing this for you.”

  David placed the single piece of paper beside the pages from Anne Frank and felt a chill run up his spine as he reached into the tobacco pouch for the last item. He had never gotten used to handling the Seventh Decision. It was a small scroll made of . . . well, exactly what, David had never been able to determine.

  Having been presented to him by the archangel Gabriel, the scroll and the physical properties it exhibited were strange indeed. From the first moment he had touched it, David perceived a faint electrical charge that had never gone away or even diminished. Also still evident, David saw as he turned the scroll in his hands, was the original luminescence, an odd glow that he had noticed the moment Gabriel placed it in his hands. I will persist without exception—the final decision that bound the six others into a life-changing force—had been composed, David finally decided, on celestial paper.

  Carefully depositing the precious scroll to the far right of the others, David leaned back in his chair and sighed deeply. At that moment, he missed Ellen more than ever. Their relationship had changed dramatically that day in the Anne Frank museum. David had always known that his wife wanted to believe his astonishing time travel had actually happened, but without real proof, he knew that the whole adventure was simply too fantastic to believe.

  After the initial shock of seeing the evidence with her own eyes, Ellen left Amsterdam with a newfound respect for her husband. From that moment forward, they had become a team in every sense of the word. Virtually inseparable, David and Ellen never made an important decision, business or otherwise, without the knowledge and approval of the other. Their love for each other, while always evident, became boundless.

  And now she was gone. David’s life, having been so inexorably linked to his soul mate, was over. Of this fact, David was certain. While his mind acknowledged that Ellen would have wanted him to “persist without exception,” his heart was broken in a million pieces, and he could not find a way to begin again.

  Eighteen months earlier, encouraged by Ellen, David had started writing, but the manuscript about which she had been s
o excited lay on a chair in the corner of his office, untouched since she had passed away.

  A sob escaped David’s mouth as his tears began to flow freely. Over the months since his wife’s sudden death, David had dismissed fleeting thoughts of suicide, knowing that desperate act would help no one, dishonor Ellen’s memory, and very likely harm the financial legacy he had created for charitable organizations. On the other hand, he didn’t understand why he had been left alone.

  Overwhelmed by grief, David reached for the tobacco pouch and the Seven Decisions and drew them into a pile. Placing his arms around the items and his head on top of his arms, he wept in great, agonizing sobs.

  After a time, with his head still on his desk and his tears spent, he said aloud, “I don’t know what to do. I just don’t know what to do.”

  “And you are not alone in that sentiment,” a voice replied. “Perhaps that is why I am here.”

  Startled, David jerked his head up and stared openmouthed into a face he had not seen in twenty-eight years—the archangel Gabriel.

  CHAPTER 2

  Hello, David Ponder,” Gabriel said. “You have aged.”

  David had almost fallen from his chair when he looked up and saw the archangel, but he recovered quickly. “Hello, Gabriel,” he responded. “I see you haven’t gained any tact since we last met.”

  Gabriel cocked his head. “Tact is a human trait,” he stated, “needed only by those who hesitate to tell the truth.”

  Though his legs were shaky at the sight of his unexpected visitor, David somehow managed to stand. Vaguely aware that he had no idea about etiquette or any specific protocol required to greet a heavenly guest, David did not attempt to shake hands or even touch the archangel. He did, however, look upon him in awe.

  In contrast to his own changes that Gabriel had mentioned, David saw that the archangel’s physical appearance was exactly as he’d remembered. He was well over six feet tall and muscular, with clear blue eyes and relatively short, curly blond hair that brushed his ears and eyebrows.

  The archangel’s robe had a disconcerting way of appearing common and otherworldly at the same time. Its cut was traditional—mere layers of cloth—but its hue was jaw-dropping. David had once described Gabriel’s robe to Ellen by saying, “The color is whiter than white. It is almost a shade of light.” Indeed, the fabric radiated a luminescence that was virtually indescribable.

  Then, of course, there were his wings. Although massive when extended, at rest Gabriel’s supernatural appendages tucked neatly behind him, sometimes completely hidden by the moving folds of his robe. They were bright white—of the same shade as the robe—but dusted with deep gold on the tip of every feather. David could not help staring in hopes of catching a better look, for it was when Gabriel moved that the wings were more easily seen. Flexing and rippling, they seemed to have a life of their own.

  “I’m glad to see you again, Gabriel,” David said. “Or maybe I am just relieved.”

  Gabriel looked evenly at the older man. “Why might you be relieved to see me, David Ponder?”

  Making his way around the desk, David tried to explain. “Well . . . I assume your being here must mean that my life is over. Will I be able to see Ellen soon?”

  Gabriel crossed his arms. With only a hint of a smile, he said, “You made the same erroneous assumption the first time we met.”

  “What do you mean?” David asked, startled.

  “You presume that my arrival coincides with your demise. But again I must declare that you are far from dead, David Ponder.”

  “Oh,” David sighed, not knowing whether to be relieved or disappointed. “But I thought—”

  “And before you ask,” the archangel interrupted, “the answer is no. You are not dreaming either.”

  “Then why are you here?” David asked simply.

  “I am here to present myself as your guide and facilitator for the upcoming summit conference.”

  David shook his head quickly as if to clear the cobwebs from his brain. “Summit conference . . . what? Gabriel, am I supposed to know what you are talking about?”

  Allowing a bit of impatience to show, the archangel flexed his wings slightly and responded, “Our time is short, David Ponder. Obviously, the lack of cognitive intelligence between us will not allow me to simply retrieve you and depart. Therefore, I am at your disposal for several minutes before we must go. Feel at ease to ask your questions.”

  David snorted. “Feel at ease, huh? I’m not sure anybody ever feels at ease around you. You and the other archangel.”

  “Michael.”

  “Yes, Michael,” David said. “In the Bible, every time one of you guys appears, you’re always telling folks, ‘Fear not!’ or ‘Don’t be afraid!’ So . . . ,” he explained with a grin, “don’t tell me to feel at ease. I think you already know how nervous folks are when you show up.”

  At that moment, David almost laughed out loud. He had gotten used to speaking his mind and having folks accept it with good humor simply because he was an older man. But the look on Gabriel’s face was priceless. David wondered if any human had ever talked to him that way.

  In addition, David was certain he was among the few on earth to actually see the archangel twice. The first time they’d met, it had been in “the place that never was”—a depository of lost dreams and unfinished prayers. Then David had been so overwhelmed by everything he was experiencing, he’d paid little attention to how Gabriel acted toward him. Actually, he wasn’t certain the subject of an archangel’s personality was relevant in any event, but he was curious about him.

  When Gabriel spoke, he did so evenly, and his eyes seemed to gather every detail. There was a trace of superiority in his manner that David did not find objectionable. In fact, Gabriel’s comment about tact and honesty was telling.

  What would it be like, David wondered, to live “in truth” every day, to speak and hear and think only the truth every moment? It’ll never happen on this planet, David mused; that’s for sure. Maybe that’s why Gabriel seems impatient. It would be hard, he finally decided, to filter every word or nuance, turning it over in your mind, on guard to avoid the tiniest deception.

  “So,” David began, “you said that there is an upcoming summit conference. Why don’t you start there?”

  “Let me begin with why the summit is being allowed,” Gabriel stated coolly.

  David caught something in the archangel’s bearing—a warning, perhaps—and furrowed his brow. “All right,” he said softly.

  With a serious nod, Gabriel began. “You are at a turning point,” he said. “You—the human race—are balanced on a precipice, and He is not pleased. Just as Amos once pled for the nation of Israel, so now the Travelers are being convened with an opportunity to avoid what seems to me, the inevitable.”

  David blinked. “Wow,” he said. “And whoa. Hold on. I had some questions before, but you just raised a whole load of new ones. The Travelers are being convened? What Travelers? And where?”

  “Every Traveler will attend the summit. I will facilitate the meeting. We will not be here.” Gabriel made the last statement and glanced around curiously, as if he were just noticing his surroundings.

  David had been leaning against his desk. Standing straight, he moved closer to Gabriel and asked, “You said ‘every Traveler.’ How many Travelers are there?”

  “Many,” the archangel answered simply.

  “Okay. Well, I guess I understand that humanity is in a bad place—‘balanced on a precipice,’ I think is how you put it—so what will happen if the Travelers don’t . . . well, I don’t even know what we’re supposed to do!”

  “There have been times in the history of your planet, David Ponder, when He has elected to . . . ah . . . how should I say this to a human?” Smiling suddenly, Gabriel thought of the term for which he had been grasping, and continued. “. . . when He has elected to start over.”

  David’s eyebrows rose. “What do you mean?”

  The expression on Gab
riel’s face was as if he had been rebuked for speaking harshly to a dense child. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought that was plain enough without delving into excessive details. Allow me to use a different phrase. There have been times in the history of your civilization when He has elected to start over, begin afresh, create anew . . .”

  “I understood what you meant, Gabriel,” David inserted. “I was asking, what might happen?”

  Readjusting his wings, Gabriel stated, “Surely you know that I do not make those specific decisions. Neither do I speculate on what might be. However, if one gazed into the past, seeking historical context, the most recent reorganization would have been the Flood.”

  David was taken aback. “The Flood? You mean Noah and the ark? That actually happened? I always assumed it was a . . . you know . . . a story, a parable. Or if it really occurred, that it was a regional event.”

  There was an uncomfortable pause before Gabriel spoke. When he did, he said, “David Ponder, I have often been amazed by the human tendency to ignore the obvious and rewrite history into accounts more palatable or easier to understand.

  “In addition to the abundant geological evidence, your own civilization records more than five hundred different cultures with separate and distinct accounts of a great flood,” Gabriel noted. “In every instance—though these writers and storytellers were divided by continents and languages and mountains and seas—the details of the event they recorded remained the same. Forty days, forty nights. A deluge that was survived only by a man and his family in a vast ship that had been constructed specifically to protect thousands of pairs of animals from the water, and a dove released to find dry land as that water receded.”

  Gazing steadily into David’s eyes, Gabriel said, “You call him Noah. In Sumeria, he was called Ziusudra. In Babylon, Uta-Napishtim. The Greeks said his name was Deucalion. In Armenia, he was Xisuthrus. On the continent of India, they called him Menue—”