by Terry James
“If so, it’s an honor…Right? Don’t sweat it. The Lord, who has started a good work in you, will finish it. That’s what the Word says, my friend.”
The minister smiled inwardly at his archaeologist friend’s philosophical-theologizing. This part of the world turned Randall Prouse on, held no fears over his head. The man was more at home here, than at San Marcos, Texas.
For Christopher Banyon, the rugged life of adventure in a land as foreboding as it had been two millennia earlier--with a young wife, who trusted him completely for her safety--the journey to the caves of Qumran was a bit more intimidating.
“Yes,” Christopher said. “That’s what the Word says.”
Randall Prouse’s mind was on his Russian-born archaeologist friend who hadn’t made it to their Wailing Wall meeting. “We’ll be okay, but, I wish Ilusia Karpin could’ve made it. Hope and pray he’s not been ambushed. We’ll be fine, though. I know this territory about as well as he does,” he said as he looked to the driver.
“I take you to this point,” the Arab driver said, after stopping the car. “They allow no farther with vehicle.”
“Thanks, Kahleed,” Randall Prouse said, handing the man who operated his own one-car taxi service the equivalent of $20. “You meet us back here at 6 this evening. There’ll be that much for you, again, okay?”
The Arab driver bowed and grinned happily. “Yes, yes, Dr. Randall. I shall be here promptly at 6 p.m.”
“The cave where the Bedouin boy found the first scrolls is about a two-mile hike,” Prouse said, jumping the heavy canvas backpack onto his shoulders, after plunging his arms through its straps. “You should be well enough acclimated by now to make that distance without too much trouble,” he said, a bit of humor in his voice.
“Susie will be okay. She walks three miles a day when she’s back home. But, I don’t know about yours truly,” Christopher said, securing his own backpack in place.
“Yeah, well, we’ll find out about your conditioning,” the archaeologist said, striding in the direction of the cave, famous for one of the greatest finds of history. They hiked at a quick pace.
The uneven terrain, dotted with salt-based boulders that jutted from the ground, made a smooth stride impossible, and the quickly rising temperature slowed them more, the farther they walked along the southwest edge of the Dead Sea.
The archaeologist talked while they moved over the hard, salt-compacted ground. “The people who lived in the area, about 130 B.C to about 70 A.D. or so, were the people we’ve given the name, the Dead Sea Sect, for obvious reasons. They lived in caves, tents, and even some crudely constructed stone buildings along these hills and ridges.” Prouse swept his hand in the air, indicating the area where archaeologists had, through the ages, found key evidence of the sect.
“Manuscripts in Hebrew and Aramaic have been found, that describe the life of Qumran community in those days. They are known as the Manual of Discipline, the Damascus Document, the Thanksgiving Psalms, and the War scroll.”
Christopher, helping his wife to step over the weather-rutted areas and large rocks, smiled to himself while they trailed their big friend. Randall Prouse no doubt missed being behind his lectern before his classes at San Marcos College. He lectured as if tutoring a freshman class on a field trip.
“The documents tell about the society’s origin and history. They lay out the community’s rules of life. They expound on the sect’s expectations for the dawn of a new age. They are prophetic in flavor. I’ve seen ‘em. Exciting stuff!” Prouse stopped, turning to let the students of his impromptu lecture catch up.
“The sect was an extremist spin-off of the Jewish apocalyptic movement. That group’s basic doctrine was that the end of time would come soon.”
Seeing his fellow hikers were again on his pace, he began walking while continuing the lesson.
“They believed, apparently, that when the end would come, Israel would be freed from its oppressors. The wicked would be destroyed, and God would raise for himself a community of elect who would escape divine judgment. They believed they would be the nucleus of God’s future people.”
The archaeologist again stopped and turned to Christopher and Susie.
“You want to rest?”
Both, though breathing heavily, shook their heads, “No.”
He resumed walking and talking. “The sect believed that God had decreed the division of mankind into two antagonistic camps. One, He called the sons of light. The other, He called sons of darkness. The one would be led by a superhuman prince of light. The bad guys would be led by an angel of darkness. The Dead Sea sect believed one people would reap divine bliss, the other divine damnation. They determined to shape their community in a way that would assure they achieved the former, rather than the latter. They would be princes and leaders under God’s future economy of things.”
“Sounds familiar,” Christopher said, breathing hard, wondering how the heavier, older man could walk and talk without losing his breath.
“It does, doesn’t it? You would think they had divine revelation, or something,” Prouse joked.
“That part about the angel, and sons of darkness is interesting, for sure,” Christopher said.
“The Romans finally dealt with the group, sometime after the 70 A.D. destruction of the Temple, and Jerusalem.”
Christopher blocked the rest of his friend’s lecture from his mind while he stumbled forward, helping his wife negotiate the terrible terrain. His mind focused, instead, on what lay behind, and, what lay ahead.
His life was marked early on to do something beyond merely preaching the Gospel. Of that he had been certain. The night as a youngster splitting wood for the fireplace of his boyhood home, the voice that was like wind had called to him.
“Feed my sheep,” he had heard that frigid February night, while the big snowflakes began falling.
It was the message heard by Christ’s disciple, Peter. It was an audible voice, and he heard it plainly, though cerebrally, now. “Feed my sheep.”
But the voice the night of the storm, of the dark, electrically charged creature that was intercepted by a supernaturally empowered something or the other, the voice coming over the dead phone line that night, it had commanded him to “Watch for the bene elohim.” The bene elohim was, they were, fallen angels. Thrown out of heaven in the satanic rebellion.
The strange impressions when he had studied and prayed while pastor of the St. Paul Presbyterian Church. He was to feed Christ’s sheep. He was plainly impressed, though not told audibly, to feed Christ’s sheep the prophetic Word of God. The weird nightmares experienced by Mark Lansing and James Morgan--men who were not of the flock, who weren’t believers in the message that Jesus Christ died for the sins of mankind. Their encounters with creatures like the one who was intercepted that stormy night in his own night-vision.
Laura Morgan’s coma and miraculous recovery. The desperate calls from Taos. The strange storm on Mount Olivet. The answer, almost immediately, when Israel overwhelmed Arab forces that outnumbered them by millions.
The scroll fragment, bearing a message about the bene elohim. The words of the orthodox blackhat before his trip into eternity, telling him to come to this God-forsaken place, to go to the cave and take with him the scroll fragments.
The final words, “Old men shall dream dreams, young men shall see visions.”
Randall dropped the heavy backpack to the ground. He looked around the region, seeing no competition for exploration of the caves. He had figured correctly. June near the Dead Sea was not prime time for archaeological ventures.
“Sit on my backpack,” he said, leading Susie by the hand and elbow, and seating her on the bulky package of canvas.
“There’s the cave,” he said, pointing at a dark shadow near the top of a slanted mound of earth. The cavern resided within a cliff-like promontory of orange-red hue.
“We’ve got it all to ourselves today,” the archaeologist said.
“I wonder why?” Christophe
r asked, wiping the heavy beads of sweat from his forehead and face with a hotel hand towel from his backpack.
He poured water from the canteen he took from around his shoulder, into a cup. He handed the cup to Susie, who looked around the area while she drank the water.
“This is a strangely beautiful place,” she said quietly, between sips.
“A girl after my own heart,” Prouse said with a smile. “Not many people appreciate this terrain.”
“Like west Texas, only worse,” Christopher said before taking a drink from the canteen’s opening.
“Like west Texas, only better!” Prouse corrected, drinking from his own canteen.
The minister looked at the barren landscape and vocalized his thought. “What in the world are we doing here? Can there be anything to the old man’s words?”
“Come on, Chris! Where’s your spirit of adventure?!”
“It’s melted away, I think,” he retorted.
“God has us here for a reason, Chris. You know that. It’s a wonderful place,” she said, looking at the distant desert-like landscape, broken by jagged cliffs made of earth, rock and salt.
“Only you could see good in such a place,” her husband said with a smile, taking the cup from her and refilling it with water.
“I’m with her. It’s a great place,” Prouse said, screwing the cap onto his own canteen, then putting his binoculars to his eyes to get a better look at the cave’s opening 300 yards in the distance.
“The Bedouins found the cave in February of ‘47. The region has been a veritable feast ever since.”
Prouse was again in lecture mode, while he and Christopher dropped their backpacks. They stood at the base of the earth mound that led upward to the cave high above.
“Anything live in there? Like animals, bats?” the minister asked, straining to look at the opening.
“Maybe a few insects,” Prouse answered. “But, there’s too many visitors to these caves for wild animals to take up residence. Besides, you won’t find many mammals in these parts.”
The seriousness of their reason for coming to this place pervaded the thoughts of the three, while they gazed upward.
The archaeologist carefully took the ancient fragment from its felt wrappings and read the Hebrew words: “‘War in heavens and on earth shall begin the consummation when first scroll words shall be found.’”
Prouse read the last of the words, after hesitating to grasp the significance of his first reading.
“‘Watch for the bene elohim…The bene elohim deludes when approaches the great taking away.’”
All were silent for several seconds, deeply within their own thoughts. The men, in particular, had been over the writings a hundred times before. Finally, Susie spoke.
“The scrolls were found in 1947. The war for Israel’s nationhood took place in 1948. Do you think that’s the meaning?” she asked. “And the next fragment says to watch for the bene elohim, the sons of god, angels, fallen angels. It says they will appear in the time of ‘the great taking away’.”
“It says they will delude when the great taking away approaches,” Randall Prouse said.
“As it was in the days of Noah,” Christopher said beneath his breath.
“What?” Prouse said.
“Oh, I was just remembering. Remember? I told you about the strange impressions I’ve been getting for so long. To preach about the Scriptures in Luke 17:26 and 27. ‘As it was in the days of Noah, so shall it be in the days of the coming of the Son of man.’”
“Yeah, I remember you telling me,” Prouse said. “The people of the Flood were definitely taken away,” he concluded.
“Yes, but I believe, more to the point, that the people in the ark were taken away, out of danger, out of the destruction that was the result of God’s judgment.”
“The rapture?” Susie Banyon said. “Do you think this has something to do with prophecy about the rapture?”
The minister’s eyes narrowed in concentration. “The taking away…like in Noah’s day…”
“It fits,” the archaeologist said. “These bene elohim –the sons of god or fallen angels--will again assault the earth like in the days of Noah before the Flood that took Noah and his seven family members safely away. God’s wrath then fell and destroyed the world in judgment.”
“I must admit, I’ve never known much about the so-called rapture theory. We weren’t taught that. We were told, as a matter of fact, that it was something cooked up by a teen-age girl in her dementia, later viewed as a vision and put forward by John Darby,” the minister said, remembering his days at seminary.
“Then the Apostle Paul must’ve been demented, too,” Prouse said. “He was the first to write about the rapture.”
“What delusion?” Susie said. “What kind of delusion? And, what does it have to do with ‘the great taking away’?”
“Delusion about the rapture?” Prouse said, as if to himself.
“Well, this is why we came. Let’s see what’s in that cave. My need to know has overcome my fright…I think.”
With his not entirely self-convincing bravado, Christopher dropped his backpack to the ground, and said, “I guess it’s up to me. The old gentleman in the black hat said nothing about others helping with this.”
“Are you sure, Chris?” Prouse said. “I can stand just outside.”
“No, I think I’d best do this the way it was told to me.”
“It’s okay,” Susie said, looking into her husband’s eyes, seeing not the courage he was trying to muster, but the Lord’s servant she loved and admired.
He took the velvet-covered scroll fragments from Prouse.
“Better take this,” Randall said, handing Christopher the flashlight he had just retrieved from the backpack.
The minister started to wedge the folded velvet cloth containing the scroll fragments between his pants at the belt buckle and his stomach but thought better of it. It might damage the precious artifacts.
He unbuttoned the chamois-like khaki shirt, stuffed the cloth carefully within, then rebuttoned the garment.
He started up the steep bank toward the cave opening, using his fingertips and toes of his boots to crawl upward. Forty feet later, he peered into the dark opening, then flipped the switch on the flashlight, and swept the interior with the bright beam.
He turned to look at his companions, who stood far below looking upward at him. He smiled a grim smile, gave a brief wave, and disappeared into the cave’s black mouth.
Taos – 2 a.m.
Mark rode in the back of the government jet the entire trip from Andrews to the private strip near Taos. The compartment door had remained closed between where he sat, and the group of five officials, including Robert Cooper. No one had checked on him; it was if he was deliberately quarantined as punishment for some unspecified transgression.
The door opened only after the jet landed and had rolled to a stop in its parking spot.
The six men had stepped from the plane at 1:45 in the morning, and soon rode toward the underground complex. The men conversed between themselves, now, but said nothing to Mark, who thought of Cooper’s words earlier.
“I’m depending on you to find them and bring them to me, to the complex. For their own good, as well as for national security. Once that’s done, we can reunite you with your father.”
The new Director of Covert Operations for the DOD had, in the same breath, sounded consoling and sinister. He offered hope mixed with threat.
Cooper’s parting words, before leaving the conference room, played again in Mark’s mind.
“There are others, Major, who, if I have to turn them loose, will make it impossible to guarantee the safety of your friends.”
He stared out the window of the limousine, seeing in the early morning darkness the distant buttes, lit by the moon’s eerie glow. He thought of his dad, and of Lori. What had happened that would make them run? Cooper had at first implied that Dr. Gessel Kirban had forced Lori and her mother and fathe
r to flee. Then, Cooper changed the story to indicate the four escapees must be brought in for unspecified national security reasons.
Mark hadn’t had time to call, to ask Ruth Prouse where he might reach her husband and Christopher Banyon, so he could find out how to get in touch with Lori. The church secretary had said the minister and the archaeologist--along with Banyon’s new wife--had gone to Israel on an archaeological quest of some sort. The secretary had said Prouse’s wife would have stayed home to deal with their children’s goings and comings. He would contact Ruth Prouse at first opportunity, Mark promised himself. Maybe she could put him in touch with the preacher, who would know about Lori’s mother. Maybe they had been in contact; maybe she had given the preacher her phone number.
Thoughts of his father moved through his mind. His dad, the way he had been when Mark was 7 years old. He was a tall man, Mark remembered. But, maybe he just seemed tall because Mark had been only 7. His Dad was always preoccupied with one thing or another, he remembered. Probably with the physics of the government projects on which he worked.
But, his Dad always took time to help him build model planes, he remembered with an inward smile. His Dad helped him make balsa models that would actually fly, as well as models of hard wood, which were only to be looked at on the top of his chest-of-drawers.
Was his father alive? Was Cooper playing some cruel hoax, just to get him to bring Lori and the others back under Cooper’s control?
Lori…she was right all along in her apprehensions concerning the man. Robert Cooper was untrustworthy, at the very least.
He would find a phone he could trust at first opportunity.
Prouse looked to the eastern sky, above the rocky ridge a quarter mile beyond the cave Christopher Banyon had entered just minutes earlier.
“I’ve never seen this,” he said in a tone of astonishment.
“What?” Susie said, trying to follow the archaeologist’s line of sight while he stared at the phenomenon.
