The Heaven Trilogy

by Ted Dekker

  “I swear this day to follow your Christ,” he said and kissed the cross again. “I swear it on my own life.”

  “Then he will have to be your Christ,” Ivena said. She took a small bottle the size of her fist from Marie. A perfume bottle, perhaps, with a pointed top and a flared base.

  “Yes. He will be my Christ,” Janjic said

  She held the bottle out to him. It was dark red, sealed with wax. Janjic took it gingerly and studied it.

  “Take it in remembrance of Christ’s blood, which purchased your soul,” she said.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s the priest’s blood.”

  Janjic nearly dropped the vial. “The priest’s blood?”

  “Don’t worry,” another spoke. “It’s sealed off; it won’t bite. It holds no value but to remind us. Think of it as a cross—a symbol of death. Please accept it and remember well.”

  Janjic closed his fingers around the glass. “I will. I will never forget. I swear it.” A great comfort swept through his body. He lifted his hands wide and faced the sky. “I swear it! And I too will give my life for you. I will remember your love shown this day through these, your children. And I will return that love as long as I live.”

  His prayer echoed through the courtyard like a bell rung from the towers. The villagers looked on in silence.

  Then somewhere, behind one of the mothers’ skirts or under sister Flouta’s rosebushes, perhaps, a small child giggled. It was an absurd sound, foreign in the heavy moment. It was an innocent sound that danced on strings from heaven. It was a beautiful, lovely, divine sound that sent a tremor of pleasure through the bones.

  It was a sound that Janjic would never, never forget.

  IVENA CLOSED the book and smiled. Glory!

  For the third time that hour, the phone rang in the kitchen, and this time she walked to get it. She plucked the receiver from the wall on its fifth ring.

  “Yes?”

  “Ivena. Are you all right?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “I’ve been calling for an hour.”

  “Because I don’t answer my phone you think I am dead, Janjic?”

  “No. Just concerned. Would you like me to pick you up?”

  “Why would you pick me up?”

  “The reception,” Janjic said. “Don’t tell me you forgot.”

  “That’s tonight?” she asked.

  “At five-thirty.”

  “And tell me again why I must attend. You know I’m not crazy about—”

  “It’s in your honor as much as mine, Ivena. It’s your story as well. And I have a surprise I would like you to share in.”

  “A surprise? You can’t tell me?”

  “Then it would no longer be a surprise.”

  She let that go.

  “And please, Ivena, make the best of it. Some of those there will be quite important.”

  “Yes. You’ve already told me. Don’t worry, Janjic; what could an old woman like me possibly say to upset important men?”

  “The fact that you even ask the question should be enough.”

  “Pick me up, then.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Of course.”

  “Five o’clock?”

  “Five is fine. Good-bye, Janjic.”

  “Good-bye.”

  She hung up.

  Yes indeed, Janjic Jovic had written a brilliant book.

  BOOK TWO

  THE SINNER

  “I tell you that in the same way there

  will be more rejoicing in heaven over

  one sinner who repents

  than over ninety-nine

  righteous persons

  who do not need

  to repent.”

  LUKE 15:7 NIV

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “What a terrible thing it is for children to see death, you say.

  We have it all wrong. If you make a child terrified of death, he won’t embrace it so easily. And death must be embraced if you wish to follow Christ. Listen to his teaching. ‘Unless you become like a child . . . and unless you take up your cross daily, you cannot enter the kingdom of heaven.’

  One is not valuable without the other.”

  The Dance of the Dead, 1959

  JAN PICKED Ivena up in his limousine at five and it quickly became obvious that she was in one of her moods.

  “I’m not sure I’m in the spirit for silly surprises, Janjic.”

  “Silly? I hope you don’t feel that way when you’ve seen it.”

  She gave his black suit a look-over, not entirely approving. “So. The famous author is honored again.”

  “Not entirely. You’ll have to wait.” He grinned, thinking of what he’d planned. In reality the event was more like two rolled into one. Roald’s idea. The leaders wanted to honor them and he had this surprise for them. It would be perfect.

  “I read the part of Nadia’s death again this morning,” Ivena said, staring forward.

  There was nothing to say to that. He shook his head. “It’s still hard to imagine my part in—”

  “Nonsense. Your part is now the book.”

  They rode in silence then.

  The war had ended within two months of that most sobering date. The history books read that Tito’s Partisans liberated Sarajevo from Nazi occupation in April of 1945, but the war left Yugoslavia more bloodied than any other country engaged in the brutal struggle. One million, seven hundred thousand of her fellow citizens found death; one million of those at the hands of other Yugoslavs. Yugoslavs like Karadzic and Molosov and, yes, Yugoslavs like him.

  Janjic spent five torturous years in prison for his defiance of Karadzic. His imprisonment had proved more life-threatening than the war. But he did survive, and he’d emerged a man transformed from the inside out.

  It was then that he began to write. He had always been a writer, but now the words came out with gut-wrenching clarity. Within three years he had a three-inch stack of double-spaced pages beside his typewriter, and he’d confidently told Ivena that no one would publish them. They were simply too spiritual for most publishers. And if not too spiritual then certainly too Christian. For those publishers who did publish Christian material the pages were far too bloody. But they did contain the truth, even if the truth was not terribly popular in many religious circles. At least not this part of the truth. The part that suggested you must die if you wanted to live. He doubted anyone would ever publish the work.

  But he wrote on. And that was a good thing because he was wrong.

  He finished the book in June of 1956.

  It was published in 1959.

  It topped the New York Times bestseller list in April of 1960.

  “There are times to forget, Ivena. Times like today. Times when love tells us that it’s worth even death.”

  She turned to him. “So your surprise today has to do with love? Don’t tell me you’re going to ask her?”

  Janjic grinned, suddenly embarrassed. “I’m not saying a thing. It wouldn’t be a surprise then, would it?”

  She humphed, but her lips curved with a small grin. “So love is in the air, is it? My, my. We can’t seem to escape it.”

  “Love has always been in the air, Ivena. From that first day. Today I begin a new journey of love.”

  She smiled now. “You have much to learn about love, Janjic. We all do.”

  THE HOTEL’S grand ballroom was crowded with well-wishers, sipping punch and smiling in small groups an hour later. Seven tables with white embroidered tablecloths and tall red candles hosted enough shrimp and artichoke hearts to feed a convention. Three large crystal chandeliers hung from the burgundy domed ceiling, but it was Karen who shone brightly tonight, Jan thought. If not now then in a few minutes.

  He watched her work the guests as only the best publicists could—gentle and sweet, yet so very persuasive. She wore an elegant red dress that flattered her trim figure. Her lips parted in a smile at something Barney Givens had said. She was with the lea
ders in the group—she always gravitated toward the power players, dazzling them with her intelligence. The twinkle in her brown eyes didn’t hurt, of course. The subtle curve of her soft neck, stretched in laughter as it was now, did not impede her influence either. Not at all.

  Working as the publicist for one of New York’s largest publishing houses, Karen had come to one of his appearances at the ABC studios, more out of curiosity than anything, she’d said. The image of the pretty brunette sitting on the front row stayed with Jan for weeks, perhaps because hers were the most intelligent questions asked of him that night. Evidently the experience had impacted her deeply and she’d read his entire book late into that night. Exactly one month later they met again, at a lecture upstate, and this time Roald’s scheming had come into play. Three months later she’d left New York for Atlanta, intent on igniting a new fire under The Dance of the Dead. They’d hired her as both agent and publicist, on a freelance basis. The brilliant publicist five years his junior had sparked a second wind to a waning message that launched the book into its third printing. Then its fourth, and its fifth and its sixth printing, each one expanding to meet the demand she had almost single-handedly created for his story.

  Ivena might be right when she suggested that Karen was a highbrow woman, as she put it, but in many respects Jan owed his career to her highbrow brilliance.

  Karen suddenly turned her head and caught his stare. He blushed and smiled. She winked and addressed Barney without missing a beat. This time Barney and Frank beside him both threw back their heads in laughter.

  Jan leaned against the head table, admiring her. At times like this she could make his knees weak, he thought.

  Ivena stood across the room talking to the ministry’s accountant, Lorna. She wore a simple yellow-flowered dress that accented her grandmotherly look. But Jan was deceived by neither her white hair nor her gentle smile. They weren’t talking cross-stitching over there—Ivena never talked of such trifles. Drink her words deep, Lorna.

  To his right, a camera crew scanned the audience; Roald had invited them when Jan confessed his idea. His surprise.

  “It’s perfect publicity. They’ll love it,” he’d said.

  “Now you’re the publicist?”

  “No, but we can’t very well consult Karen, can we?”

  “The whole world will know,” Jan protested.

  “Exactly. That’s the point. You’re the voice of love. Now you show some love of your own. It’s perfect!”

  “Who then?”

  “ABC. I can talk to John Mathews about getting it on the news.”

  Jan couldn’t have talked Roald out of it if he’d wanted to. The ABC crew was filming, and adding their commentary at leisure. It was now or never.

  He picked up a fork, took a deep breath, and struck the side of his glass. The chime cut through the scattered conversation. He struck it again, and the din died down.

  The camera had already swung to face him.

  “Thank you. It’s a pleasure to see you all here tonight. Thank you for coming.” Jan’s heart stomped through his chest. Roald was right: The world’s eyes were on him.

  He turned to face Karen, who smiled unsuspectingly beside Frank and Roald. “Most of you probably think my book, The Dance of the Dead, has forever changed my life. And you would be right. You might think that it’s a culmination of a life, but there you would be wrong. It’s only a beginning. I am, after all, still a young man.”

  Chuckles rippled through the room. Jan caught Ivena’s eye.

  “Ivena tells me that I have much to learn of love.” He winked at her and she graciously dipped her head. “And she’s right. I stand before you—before all of my friends, before the world—with the hopes of beginning a new journey into the heart of love tonight. A journey that will complete me.”

  Betty, their correspondence manager, gave a motherly smile and cast a look toward Karen. Some of them had guessed already, of course. His affections for Karen were hardly a secret.

  “She came to us three years ago. She’s brilliant and kind. She is breathtaking and she is stunning. But more than any of those, Karen makes me a man, I think. And I make her a woman.”

  Jan’s coworkers had all but begged for this moment for over a year now. He could see their eyes brighten in the periphery of his vision. He stretched an inviting hand toward Karen. She moved through the crowd without removing her eyes from his. They were misted now, he thought. She reached him and took his hand. He bent and kissed it lightly.

  Over her shoulder, he saw that even Ivena smiled wide.

  “I can’t believe you’re doing this,” Karen said in a low voice.

  “Believe it,” he returned quietly.

  When he straightened, the small black box was in his hand, withdrawn from his pocket while bent. He snapped it open. A three-carat diamond solitaire sparkled in its black velvet perch. Someone gasped nearby—perhaps Lorna, who stood not five feet from them. Yes, it was rather extravagant. But then so was Karen.

  She was smiling unabashedly now.

  He held the box out to her and looked in her eyes. “Karen, will you take a journey with me? Will you give me your hand in marriage?”

  A heavy silence gripped the room. The sound of ABC’s camera hummed steadily.

  A twinkle lit her eyes. “You’re asking me to marry you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You want to spend your life with me?”

  “Yes.” He swallowed.

  She dropped her eyes to the box and reached for it. Her hand held a slight tremble, Jan saw. She’s going to . . .

  Suddenly he didn’t know what she was going to do. You never quite knew with Karen. She ignored the ring, uttered a little shriek and threw herself at him. Her arms wrapped around his neck and she pulled him tight.

  “Yes! Yes, I will.”

  He nearly dropped the box, but managed to snap it closed in his palm. Karen kissed him pointedly on the lips—more of a ceremonious display than an expression of passion. She drew back and winked at him. Then she immediately took the ring box from him, turned to face the camera and held it up proudly. The hall erupted with applause, nicely accented with catcalls and hoots of approval.

  The next half-hour wandered by in a hazy dream for Jan. They all congratulated him and Karen, one by one. Interviews were held and camera bulbs flashed. Karen was glowing.

  Roald approached them, smiling wide as the rounds of congratulations died down. “I couldn’t offer more joy, my friends.” He put a hand on each of their shoulders. “It’s a perfect day for the perfect couple.”

  “Thank you, Roald,” Karen said, dipping her head. She glanced at Jan with a twinkle in her eye. “I couldn’t imagine more myself.”

  Roald chuckled. “Well, if you wouldn’t mind entertaining the guests for a few minutes, Karen, the leaders would like to speak with Jan. We won’t take him for long, I promise.”

  “Don’t leave me stranded too long.”

  “You? Stranded? The cameras are still here, Karen. I’m sure you’ll find a way to make use of them.”

  “I’ll be right with you, Roald,” Jan said.

  The man hesitated and then stepped back. “Take your time.” He walked from them.

  “So we’re really doing this, are we?” Karen asked.

  Jan faced her, grinning. “Evidently. How does it feel?”

  “It feels like it should, I think. Having the cameras here was a perfect touch. Your idea?”

  “Roald’s.”

  “I thought so. Good man.”

  “Yes.” He glanced around and saw that the company was mostly engaged. He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the lips. “Congratulations,” he said.

  For a moment they stood in silence. She reached up and straightened his tie, a small habit she performed too routinely. “You’re such a handsome man. I’m so proud of you.”

  “I meant what I said, you know? Every word.”

  She kissed him on the cheek. “Yes, I do know, Mr. Jovic. And I mean
t what I said.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said yes.”

  He smiled and nodded. “Yes you did. Now if you’ll excuse me for a few minutes while I take care of Roald and his friends.”

  “Take your time,” she said.

  He left her and angled for the meeting room across the hall. Roald intercepted him. They walked past a dozen guests, nodding graciously. “They’re waiting already,” Roald said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt the moment but Barney has a flight in two hours and Bob promised his grandson a trip to the theater tonight.”

  “Ivena?”

  “She’s waiting as well,” Roald said with grin.

  “Good,” Jan said. They entered the meeting room and closed the door on the noisy hall.

  IVENA SAT adjacent to Janjic, listening to the scene unfold with a hubbub of monotony before her. They sat around the oval table, seven gray-haired evangelical icons from all corners of the country, sober yet delighted at once, staring at Janjic, their prize, who sat awkwardly at the head. They’d spent the first round congratulating him on the engagement and were getting down to the real meat. At least that was how Ivena saw the setting.

  Janjic held himself in a distinguished manner—he could slip into the perfect professional sheen when the occasion demanded it. But beneath his new American skin the Serbian she had known could hardly hide. At least not from her. She saw the way he nonchalantly smoothed his right eyebrow when he was impatient, as he did now. And the way his mouth curved in a gentle but set grin when he politely disagreed. As it did now.

  He’d filled out over the years and he’d always stood much taller than her, but under the commanding facade he was still a young man, looking for escape. His face was well aged for thirty-eight years—the war and five years in prison were mostly responsible. It didn’t matter, he was still strikingly handsome. Crow’s-feet already wrinkled the skin around his eyes from his constant smiling. His dark blond hair swept back, graying above his ears and curled at his collar. The white American shirts with their ties always looked a little silly on him, she thought. For all her fussing over him, Karen obviously disagreed.