by Ray Garton
"Shut up, boy!" the officer roared.
"Just be quiet, Matthew," Al said quietly and tremulously. "Just be quiet and do as they say, everything'll be fine, just pray, Matthew, just pray, that's all."
"Pray!" the second officer laughed as he slammed the trunk. "That's a good one, coming from you!"
"That's a nice name...Matthew," the officer behind them said, once again sounding oddly confused. "A good biblical name. One of Christ's disciples."
As they neared the car, the front door of Baxter's house across the street opened and an old man came outside in robe and slippers. Wisps of thin white hair wreathed a bald pate and a paunch protruded beneath his grey robe. He limped across his lawn slowly, frowning over at them. In the center of his forehead, there was a mark of some kind, like a star. He stopped at the edge of the lawn, then hobbled across the street
"Al?" he called. "Al Holt? Is that you? What're you doing back here?"
Al said nothing, just watched him with wide eyes beneath furrowed brows. It was Baxter's voice, broken and weaker than usual, but his voice. But the man from whom the voice came was far too old to be Baxter. He looked liked he was in his late sixties and not terribly healthy.
"Al? They taking you away?" Suddenly, he grinned. "Ha!"
The man came out on the sidewalk and Al saw that the mark on his forehead was a pentagram, one of the many occult images commonly used in the music business and found on the covers of horror novels and books about Satanism.
"Oh, that's a good one!" the man shouted, raising his fist in the air. "This is what you wanted, Al! And you got it! Ha! And now look at you! Ha! Look at you!"
The man cackled insanely as Al and Matthew were pushed roughly into the back seat of the car. The door slammed and the man's laughter continued, but muffled now outside the car, sounding as if he were under water.
The officers got in, the driver started the car and they made a U-turn, speeding away from the house and the laughing neighbor who sounded so much like Jerry Baxter, but looked so much older.
The back seat was separated from the front by thick, transparent plastic. There was a small black speaker attached to the ceiling from which poured the tinny sounds of a church hymn, "The Old Rugged Cross."
"Daddy?" Matthew whimpered through his tears. "What's gonna happen to us? Where's Mommy? And Ruth? What did they do with Mommy and Ruth?"
Al looked down at his son. The boy's eyes were red and puffy, his cheeks shiny with tears. He tried to respond but could not. His mouth moved, but nothing came out. Words could not get beyond the burning lump of fear and anger that continued to grow in his throat. Finally, he broke and lost control.
He threw himself forward, slamming his head into the transparent shield, screaming, "Damn you! Damn you! Who do you think you are? How can you do this?"
The middle section of the transparent divider slid downward and a hand reached through the opening to touch the familiar small black object to Al's temple.
As his skull filled with a moment of bright, painful whiteness, the last thing Al heard was the sound of his son screaming.
* * * *
He awoke sitting up in a chair with his hands cuffed behind its stiff, straight back. It took a little while for his blurry vision to clear, but when it did, he looked around to see that he was surrounded by men who stood staring at him. All of them wore odd suits with ties, but one—the driver of the car that had taken him away from his home—wore his uniform, without his helmet, and stood straight with his gloved hands joined before him. Al closed his eyes and let his aching head drop forward as he groaned.
"Brother Holt! Will you please raise your head?"
He could not
Suddenly, the officer's face appeared beneath his. "The Elder is speaking to you, Holt. Lift your head. Now." Then, to the others, he said, "I don't think he understands being addressed as 'brother.'"
It was a battle, but he forced his throbbing head up until he faced them again. His eyes were a little clearer now. There were four men in odd suits with the coat lapels and collars turned inward rather than out and with shirts that had no collars at all. The one on his far left was a pudgy young man, perhaps in his mid-twenties, with brown hair and a face that was stern beyond its years. The second was much older, bald except for a few tufts of white hair above his ears and a number of moles on his face and shiny scalp. The third looked terribly normal: a middle-aged man, a bit droopy, with dark hair salted with white and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses on his rather thick nose. The fourth stood behind an enormous desk, tall and very thin, with silver hair combed straight back. His suit was different from the others; he had epaulets on the shoulders and wore a kind of badge where his lapel should have been, but Al could not see it clearly. On the wall behind the desk was a round emblem, not unlike the Presidential Seal, but in the center was the head of a lamb with a single horn jutting from the middle of its head. Below the emblem was an elaborately framed painting of Jesus Christ.
And then, of course, there was the officer standing just two feet away from Al.
"You are a mystery to us, broth—uh, Mr. Holt," said the man behind the desk. "You have baffled us. Just as we seem to baffle you. But before we go any further, let me introduce everyone." He pointed to the pudgy man at the far left and went down the line. "Deacon Connor, Elder Duvall, Deacon Jenning and, of course—" He waved toward the uniformed officer. "—Deacon Potter. I am Elder Walters. We know that you are Albert Caymon Holt. But you mystify us. For many reasons. Some of which we'll go into later. We'd like to question you in the hope that we will be able to clarify the confusion that you present to us. Do you understand?"
Al looked at him for a long time, then finally shook his head slowly. "Nuh-no, I-I'm sorry, I...no, I don't under-understand."
"When were you born?" Deacon Connor asked immediately, frowning.
"Uh, born? I was born, uh, October eighth, uh, nineteen, uh, nine...teen seventy, um...seven. Nineteen seventy-seven."
Everyone in the room exchanged shocked glances.
"That's not possible," Deacon Jenning said quietly. He stepped forward and raised his voice. "That's not possible! You're much too young to have been born in 1977!"
"Deacon Jenning, please," Elder Walters said quietly, holding up a hand. He walked around his desk. "Brother Holt, we are very interested in your background. It seems that you...well, that you genuinely have no idea of the, uh, world in which you live. We are trying to determine whether you should be sent to an anti-possession facility or if, perhaps...you've come to us from...from someplace we do not understand. I'd like you to tell me what year it is, please."
"2011, of course," Al replied, frowning at the man in spite of his pounding headache. "And I am not. Possessed. By demons! I wish you people would quit saying that!"
Once again, the men exchanged startled glances.
Elder Walters came closer to him, leaned forward and said, "Are you sure you're not just confused because of the shock administered to you by Deacon Potter? Or perhaps because of the headache you are experiencing now as a result?"
Al closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. "Yes, something was done...to my head. And yes, I have an incredible headache. But it is 2011. And I and my family have been wrongly arrested...by two men...claiming to be some kind of police officers."
The words "police officers" were muttered by the men in the room as if they were strange, nonsensical words.
Elder Walters turned to him again. "Mr. Holt, did you know that your house is in violation of Churchstate law because of the way it's painted?"
"I...I-I don't even know what—that doesn't make any—Churchstate law?" he said, only making his head hurt worse. "I've never heard of such a thing, it's ludicrous."
Elder Duvall came toward him, frowning, and pointed a bent, knobby finger at him. "You mean to say that you are completely and totally unaware of the regulations concerning the colors used in house painting?"
"Reg
ulations? For house painting? Are...are you kidding? No, I am not aware of any—in fact that's—well, it's just the most ridiculous I've ever heard. It's stupid."
Elder Duvall's old eyes widened as he backed away. "Stupid!" he barked hoarsely.
"Wait, just wait a moment," Elder Walters said, putting a hand on Duvall's shoulder. "Mr. Holt, in what year did you paint your house blue?"
"Three years ago. 2008."
"And on what street do you live?"
"Chestnut Avenue. 1721 Chestnut Avenue."
Once again, the men exchanged looks, but this time, they were slow and thoughtful.
"Tell me, Mr. Holt," Elder Walters said, "do you believe in miracles?"
"God has been performing miracles since the beginning of time," Al said, bowing his head again because it felt so heavy. "And he continues to perform them. Personal miracles. For those who believe in him."
Another exchange of looks between the men.
"Could you please look at us?" Elder Walters asked.
Al slowly lifted his head.
Deacon Jenning asked, "Mr. Holt...what are your feelings toward abortion?"
"Wrong," Al croaked. "It's wrong. In fact, that's what my family and I were going to—"
"Mr. Holt," Deacon Potter interrupted, "what are your feelings toward pornography?"
"Wrong." He slowly turned his head back and forth, even though it hurt. "Wrong, wrong, wrong. It should be stopped. But now that the internet is bringing it into people's homes—well, a lot of people cry censorship, but it's damaging, it's profoundly harmful and a vile sin, and it has nothing to do with freedom. Pornography is evil. Freedom doesn't shelter evil. Our founding fathers never intended anything like that."
The men looked at one another once again, this time with smiles on their faces.
Elder Walters said, with a bit of reverence in his voice, "Then you are Albert Caymon Holt."
Al looked at all of them, one at a time, then said, "Of course I am. What did you think?"
Elder Walters turned to Deacon Potter and said, "Open the door. Tell them to bring in the signs."
Potter went to the door, opened it and muttered something. A man entered the room holding a number of signs under his right arm, flat wooden sticks with sheets of cardboard covered with writing attached to them. He said, "Where would you like them, brother?"
"Just put them on the floor," Walters said. "Right here. Then you can go."
He did as he was told, then left, closing the door behind him.
Elder Walters leaned down and picked one of them up, leaning it against his shoulder with a slight smile. "Do you recognize this, broth—Mr. Holt?"
In letters that Al himself had painted, the sign read:
JESUS SAID:
"SUFFER THE CHILDREN TO COME UNTO ME."
HE DID NOT SAY:
"MURDER THE CHILDREN BEFORE THEY COME
UNTO ME."
"Yes, I recognize that sign," Al said, his voice dry and hoarse. "I made it."
"When did you make it?" Elder Walters asked.
"Oh...a week ago. Maybe ten days."
"Why?" Elder Duvall asked abruptly.
"For the gatherings. The coalition gatherings."
"What coalition?" Deacon Jenning asked.
"The Coalition for Unborn Life."
Another long look from one man to another.
"Of which you are a member," Elder Walters said.
"Well, yes, of course."
"Why was your wife wearing makeup on her face?" Deacon Connor asked. "Why was your daughter dressed the way she was?"
"Because...they wanted to look...nice. That's all."
"Do you have any relatives who have the same name as you?" Elder Walters asked.
"Well...no, of course not. I'm the only Albert Holt."
The men exchanged yet another look.
"Would somebody please tell me what's going on?" Al asked. "Because I'm in pain and I've been separated from my family and I'd really like to know why. I could probably have you all arrested for holding me like this, you know."
Elder Walters got down before him on one knee and said, very quietly, "Mr. Holt. This is the year 2042."
Al frowned at him through the pain that throbbed in his head. "What?"
Elder Duvall said softly. "You are in the year 2042...although every piece of identification you have, not to mention your birth date, puts you in the year 2011. It's a miracle. From God. A holy miracle. Because we...we know who you are. And what is most amazing, and most miraculous...is that you exist today, as well."
Al looked around at them, from one face to another, very slowly. Suddenly, the incredible throbbing in his head meant nothing. All that mattered was his family. He suddenly began to struggle with the cuffs, to try to bring his arms around to his sides, growling like an animal all the while.
Elder Walters put his hand on Al's shoulder and said, "Please, please, calm down. For your own good. Just remain calm."
"Remain calm?" Al barked. "You people have taken my family from me, and now you're saying crazy things that don't make a damned bit of—"
"Watch your language!" Deacon Potter interrupted.
"—sense! Laws about house painting and it's the year 2042 and—" He stopped, panting for breath, clenching his eyes, letting his pounding head drop heavily.
Elder Walters said calmly, "Your wife has already been tried. A High Priest of the Churchstate has sentenced her to five years in a prayer camp."
Al lifted his head very slowly and looked at Elder Walters with teary eyes. "Exactly what...are you...talking about? Prayer camps? A Churchstate? You're...you're crazy."
Quite unexpectedly, Elder Walters smiled. "I'm talking about something that you helped to create, Brother Holt."
An expression of horror passed over Al's face. "What?"
"You may not understand as yet, but quite frankly, neither do we. By some miracle, you have been brought to us in...well, in an earlier state. As a younger man. For reasons known only to the Lord God, you have been plucked out of an earlier time and brought here to see your own future. Our present. A present in which you had a great hand, Brother Holt. And for that, you should rejoice. Just as we are rejoicing for your presence here." He looked over his shoulder at Deacon Connor and hissed, "Call him. Get him here. Now!"
Deacon Connor left the room, slamming the door behind him.
"As I said, Brother Holt, you should rejoice. A miracle has been performed and for some reason, God has brought you here to see your future. The future that you helped to create."
Al's confusion turned to fear. He trembled all over and his teeth clenched so hard, his jaws ached. He wondered if he were dreaming, or hallucinating. Could he possibly have had a stroke? None of this made sense. It was as illogical as a dream, and yet it was real in every way. Frustration rose in him like bile and finally, he shouted, "What the hell do you mean, the future I helped to create?"
Each man in the room crossed himself and bowed his head for a moment.
Voice trembling ever so slightly, Elder Walters said, "I understand your confusion. Brother Holt, really I do. But there are some things that you must understand as well. Back in 2011, Albert Holt was nothing more than an active member in the Coalition for Unborn Life. But that changed very suddenly. When the country finally came under the rule of a president who had been saved, a true Christian who was willing to go up against some godless protest groups, Albert Holt became—that is to say that you became quite important."
Al began to cry. Each sob increased the searing pain in his head and quaked his entire body in spite of its restraint. "You're lying to me," he sobbed, tears falling. "This is no miracle, it's some kind of hoax, it's a-a-a nightmare!"
"Do you want us to calm you down?" Elder Walters asked. "We have drugs that will quickly—"
"No, no, no, I...I'm just...you're frightening me, and I just need to...to ..." He tried to pull himself together, calm down, think clea
rly. It was a struggle.
Elder Walters stood, joined his hands behind his back and smiled down at Al. "You're a very important man around here now, Brother Holt. In fact, you're now known as Bishop Holt. You, and you alone, created the prayer camps. That was your idea. Using a combination of intensive bible study, prayer and pharmaceuticals, we have been successful in turning around a lot of misguided lives. Those camps have improved our holy society immeasurably. You had a big hand in creating the CRP—the Children Recovery Program that saves young people who have not received a Christian upbringing. Anyone up to the age of 18 who has not been raised in Christ is...corrected. And all of this came from your deep-seated belief in old-fashioned American family values. You helped bring this country back to God."
His trembling became powerful convulsive shakes as he looked up at Elder Walters. His lips quivered uncontrollably and tears rolled down his puffy cheeks.
"B-but it's...wrong!" he hissed. "Don't you see that it's wrong?"
Elder Walters's smile disappeared and he asked. "What did you say? What's wrong?"
"What you're doing. That was not our intention, not at all."
"Well, obviously, you're very confused and upset, and that's understandable. But I want you to know that—"
"I'm not confused about anything!" Al shouted. "This is some kind of sick joke! A perverted haox! It's a—"
The door opened and Deacon Connor came back in. Al stopped his shouting, bowed his head again and tried to catch his breath.
"He'll be here soon," Deacon Connor said quietly. "The secretary will let us know."
"What we're trying to tell you, Brother Holt," Elder Walters said, "is that you are a very important person to us. You are revered here."
Al lifted his head slowly and stared at them with his twisted, tear-streaked face. "Then please...give me back my children and my wife. Please."
The door opened and a young woman walked in. "Bishop Holt is here," she said quietly.
Elder Walters turned and said, "Thank you, Sister Ayers."
She held the door open and a tall, thin man walked in wearing a flowing white robe. A large, ruby-studded cross hung from around his neck. He had silver hair, sunken cheeks, and eyes that stared piercingly from deep within their sockets. His chin jutted slightly and the corners of his thin-lipped mouth turned slightly downward. He was in his seventies but fit, with rigid posture. His eyes locked with Al's the moment he walked into the room. He moved quickly to stand directly in front of Al, looking down at him with deep lines cut into his forehead, eyebrows furrowing together above the bridge of his nose.
