by Glenn Kleier
Ariel asked, “What happens to the butterflies that accumulate against the membrane?”
Stan said, “They build up pressure until, eventually…”
Tia said, “When we reverse the election, it’s going to send a monster butterfly slamming into the membrane, bursting it for sure. The Big One. It’ll release a massive wave. A Time-tsunami.”
Ariel felt panic. “The only way we and our memories will be safe from the Tsunami is inside the Trapping Horizon. But being inside it will expose us to the Big One.”
Damned if they remained in the bubble, damned if they left. Ariel’s head was spinning.
Max said, “As the election nears, we’ll need to keep to the tent. First sign of the Big One, we step outside the Horizon till it’s over, step back in before the Tsunami hits. A two-step dance.”
“Assuming,” Tia said, “some Timewave doesn’t strike between now and then to make us forget the dance. And speaking of memories, there’s something we all seem to have forgotten.”
Everyone turned to her.
“Do any of you remember hearing about a Prophet in the news four years ago?”
Getting confused looks, she clarified, “The changes we’ve made to the past should be baked into history by now. Four years ago, we were in school, but we weren’t blind to current events. We would have all noticed a national sensation like the Prophet. I’ve no memories of him, do you? If Timewaves update our memories about things as incidental as my hair, where are our updated memories about the Prophet of Queens?”
That had everyone stewing. Then Stan’s face darkened, and he whispered, “I hope there’s another explanation, but I can think of only one.”
Tia finished for him in a whisper. “In the new reality to come, we’ll cease to exist. The Time-tsunami is going to erase us…”
Silence.
Ariel felt a chill unlike anything she’d ever known. She rose as if drawn by some invisible force, approaching the bay window to stare out at the tent. “Assuming that’s true,” she said softly, “when the Tsunami hits, all that will be left of us and our universe will shrink to the size of the force field bubble, if we remember to hide inside it.”
More Silence.
At length, Tia said, “Knowing that, do we dare continue?”
“Knowing what the world has become,” Stan replied, “do we dare quit? What are our lives to us without science?”
There were tears in his eyes. Ariel had never seen him like that.
Max said, “Regardless, there’s no going back. Whatever our fate, it’s already rewritten.”
Chapter 89
Saturday, October 25, 7:00 pm, City of God
The car turned onto the grounds of a country club. A sign boasted an eighteen-hole golf course, an Olympic-size swimming pool, tennis club, and five-star restaurant where tonight’s dinner would be held. All beautifully landscaped on the edge of town abutting a mountain whose peak the sun was now dipping below. Scotty had never seen such opulence firsthand.
They circled a packed parking lot to arrive at a fountain round-about in front of the dining hall—a magnificent, four-story glass conservatory. As Scotty, Ivy, Thornton, and the mayor exited the car for the hall, Scotty noticed the media tailing them. But when the media tried to follow them inside, security cut them off. Tonight’s event was members only, and despite angry protests, the reporters had to content themselves observing through the glass walls.
Scotty left his shepherd’s staff at hat check, proceeding with the others down wide stairs, reaching a magnificent atrium under a glass roof. The room was filled with guests, and when a host met Scotty at the bottom, the guests burst into applause.
“Welcome, Mr. Butterfield, Ms. Butterfield,” the host greeted. “An honor to meet you. If you don’t mind, some of our patrons would like to meet you, too.”
Scotty had had enough socializing for one day, but saw no gracious way out. A receiving line formed, and he and Ivy shook hands and chatted with all who cared to make their acquaintance.
Exhausting.
Finally, the last person was accommodated, and Thornton led Scotty and Ivy to the head table where they joined the mayor, his wife, and other dignitaries. Ivy was seated with the wives, Scotty between Thornton and the mayor.
It was the finest meal Scotty ever had, no slight to Mrs. Steiner. Five courses served without alcohol while VIPs made speeches. Scotty’s only complaint were the many interruptions of undeserved accolades paid to him. And just when a killer-looking chocolate torte was being served, a man in a dark suit appeared beside Thornton to buzz in his ear. Thornton nodded, the man left, and Thornton blotted his lips with a napkin, turning to Scotty.
“May I suggest we stretch our legs before dessert?” he asked. “There’s one more person I’d like you to meet.”
Eyeing the torte, Scotty rose and followed Thornton up the stairs. When they reached the foyer, Scotty saw more men in dark suits wearing sunglasses, despite nightfall. Perhaps because of the media lights. Reporters crowded the windows like kids outside a toy store.
Thornton led on toward a knot of more dark-suited men. As Scotty drew close, the knot unraveled to reveal a tall gentleman in a grey suit. The man turned, grinned wide, and extended a hand. Scotty recognized him, taking the hand before realizing it.
Thornton beamed to say, “Scott, let me introduce the next president of the United States…”
Scotty froze mid-shake, media watching, camera lights glaring.
“…Roger was in Memphis campaigning, and came up to pay his respects.”
“Mighty pleased to meet you, Prophet,” Filby drawled, “I’m a huge fan.”
Scotty recoiled and let go of the hand like it was leprous. The dark suits moved to block the cameras, and Thornton sputtered, “Roger simply wanted to meet you, Scott. He’s an admirer.”
“The Lord forbids it,” Scotty cried.
Thornton turned to Filby, agog. “Best you go, Roger. I’ll call…”
Filby appeared fuddled, and as his entourage hustled him off, he gushed over a shoulder, “Well sir, it was a real honor—”
Scotty leaned into Thornton. “We have to talk. If it’s not already too late.”
Looking stricken, Thornton nodded and ushered him away.
Reverend Thornton led the Prophet out a rear door of the building, feeling the cool night air sizzle on his cheeks. They passed through a garden toward the serenity of golf greens.
“Forgive me,” he told Scott again, “I had no idea—”
He caught himself. That wasn’t true. Indeed, he’d considered the risk of springing Filby on his guest, and had forged ahead regardless. Thornton needed a bone to toss the Council after the disastrous debate, and what better way to bolster Filby’s poll numbers than to pair him with the celebrated Prophet? Bring the two men together, let the ever-present media imply a relationship.
A dreadful miscalculation. Whatever Judgment the Lord sent the Prophet to pronounce on him, Thornton had surely made it worse.
They walked in silence out onto soft grass, the scent of fallen leaves on the breeze, distant mercury vapor lights throwing long shadows. The Prophet broke the stillness.
“If I can cut to the chase, Reverend, the Lord wants something from you.”
Thornton felt a shiver in his soul. Indeed, he owed the Lord. In all this time, he’d never truly reconciled his Great Sin, concealing it from the world these many years, hiding his shame. And now, his day of recompense had come. He sighed. The revelation would humiliate him before his countless supporters. Destroy him. But better to settle his score in this life than the next.
He replied in a whisper, “I know.”
“The angel said you would.”
Thornton hung his head. “How should we do this? Hold a press conference?”
“That won’t be necessary. The Lord wants to keep it quiet. Just give it to me.”
Thornton puzzled. “You mean, give you my Confession?”
Now Scott looked confused. “No-
no. The videotape. I’ve come for the videotape.”
Thornton pulled up short. “The tape? That’s what the Lord wants?”
Scott halted, too. “The Shackleton tape, yes. Original and all copies, to take back with me.”
Even in the low light, Thornton knew the shock on his face was evident. No mention of his Sin. Of course, God in His omniscience knew of the video, and of the Council’s plan to release it. And it appeared the Lord was more intent on preventing that wrong than righting another.
“There’s only one copy,” Thornton said. “Locked in my office.” The Prophet seemed relieved. “Except, I can’t give it up yet.”
“But it’s the Lord’s Will. He sent me on this Mission.”
“Yes, and of course, I respect the Lord’s wishes. It’s complicated. I chair a powerful Council of churches. Twelve of the country’s largest ministries. We’re deeply vested in Filby’s election, and the tape is our insurance. Its contents can guarantee us victory—”
The boy covered his ears. “I can’t know what’s on the tape, I just need you to give it to me. You wouldn’t deny the Lord, right?”
“Let me explain. I’m sworn on the bible, a sacred oath before my Council. Filby is down in the polls, and unless he takes a substantial lead by Sunday a week, I must release the tape to the public. I’ve given my solemn word, the Council will hold me to it. The Lord will understand.”
Butterfield hesitated. “There’s more. In exchange for the tape, The Lord is willing to grant you a Covenant.”
A Covenant. The words pierced Thornton’s heart, and he held a hand to his chest. God’s most sacred bond with man, like the Covenant of the Ark. To Thornton’s knowledge, God hadn’t made such an accord in two millennia. He stammered, “Wh-what does the Lord propose?”
“It’s simple. Hand over the tape, and the Lord will bless Filby with victory. Otherwise…”
Thornton was astonished. “I need more time. Once I present the Covenant to the Council, surely they’ll release me from my oath.”
Scott shook his head. “The Covenant is between you and the Lord, alone. Reveal its terms, and Filby will lose.”
The reverend began to pace. The Prophet joined him. They circled the green in silence for a time, then Thornton stopped. “I have it,” he said. “Raise Filby’s poll numbers. The three swing states are all that matter. An easy feat for the Lord. If He’ll grant me that tiny blessing, I won’t have to break my vow. I’ll be free to give you the tape.”
“You want the Lord to raise Filby’s poll numbers? To what?”
“To fifty-four percent. By a week from tomorrow.”
Chapter 90
Sunday, October 26, 9:00 am
the skies above New York
Their jet descended into fog, New York’s dismal weather lingering on. Scotty had been quiet on the flight home. Ivy watched him slouched in the seat next to her, looking like he hadn’t slept. Her attempts to engage him had met little success, and discouraged, she’d given up.
Last night in their hotel after the festivities, he’d told her of the roadblock he’d run into with Thornton and the tape. How he worried about facing Ariel empty-handed, how the Lord would receive the news. Not to mention Scotty’s forbidden encounter with Roger Filby.
Ivy felt guilty. Scotty was returning in turmoil, while she’d just had the time of her life. Yet she had to admit, she’d felt bogus amid all that wealth and privilege, chumming with a Dark Age mega-pastor while the poor wretches outside Scotty’s building were left huddled in the rain, far removed from the sparkling, sunny City of God.
“Well,” she told Scotty, “we can feel good about one thing, anyway. Ms. Willoughby.”
It got a nod out of him, and she added, “Did you see how close she and the reverend are? So sweet. I wonder why they aren’t married, they’re both single.”
“How do you know they’re single?”
“The mayor’s wife said. Thornton lost his family years ago. I guess he never got over it.”
Scotty shrugged, and she punched his shoulder. “Come on, snap out of it. You did your best.”
“You don’t know the whole of it,” he told her, eyes troubled. “Like you said before, there’s something fishy going on.”
“I don’t know because you won’t tell me.”
“I’ll say this much, the tape deal feels like a deal with the Devil, and I don’t mean Thornton.”
They landed at JFK airport and deplaned in mist, grabbed their bags, and headed across wet tarmac—to a surprise welcome. Thousands were at the gates to greet them, erupting at the sight of the Prophet and his shepherd’s staff, media on hand to record it.
TSA guards worked them through the bedlam, but Ivy feared Scotty would be late for his crucial session with Ariel. And then suddenly, a big, uniformed policeman and short man in a long coat blocked their path. The short man raised a badge and an official-looking document, and the TSA guards stood aside.
Ivy’s heart sank. A truant officer. And stepping out from behind the cop, Pop.
“You can’t do this,” Ivy cried. “I’m an adult.”
The cop said, “Sorry, Ms. Butterfield, the papers are in order.”
She felt a hand on her shoulder. “No use fighting,” Scotty said. “We knew this was coming.”
Pop came forward and snarled at him. “No more. You keep away from her, by God. Or next time, they’ll be coming for you.”
The cop led Ivy away, and she turned to wish Scotty luck. But he’d vanished. Last she saw, the top of his staff hovered above the melee like a question mark.
The turmoil at the airport cost time, and now Scotty’s cab was slowed by fog and traffic, threatening his already-problematic session with Ariel. Then just a block from his apartment, his cab screeched to a halt. Scotty groaned to see the street filled with thousands of milling souls. And as the cab crept forward again, people recognized Scotty, swarming, begging his attention.
The cabbie locked the doors, frowning at Scotty in the rearview mirror. “Hope your angel’s on your shoulder today,” he said.
“No. I’m supposed to meet her at home by 10:00.”
“I’ll do my best, but it don’t look good.”
The cab inched on, crowd pressing. Suddenly a man banged on Scotty’s window, panic in his face. “I lost my job, my home,” he cried. “I’ve got nothing.”
Scotty felt for him. One week ago, he was nearly in the same spot. The man was replaced by new supplicants, and the cabbie yelled over the chaos, “Government don’t do nothin’ for nobody no more. These people got nowhere to go, now the governor’s threatenin’ to clear the streets.”
“What’s the mayor have to say about that?”
“He told the governor to stay out of it, leave people alone—he’s changed his tune after what you did for ‘im. But he can’t help ‘em, city’s broke. All these people got is you.”
Scotty gripped his shepherd’s staff in both hands. “No one understands. I’ve got no powers.”
The man’s eyes held hope. “Sometimes, you know, the way to get power is to seize it.”
Progress was slow to the apartment building, the clock well past 10:00. Fortunately, cops were still on duty, and helped muscle Scotty inside. He trudged upstairs and into his apartment as fast as his weary legs allowed, knowing he was too late.
Homer awaited him inside the door. You look like crap.
“I feel like crap.”
Dropping his bag and staff, Scotty went to his computer and woke it. As expected, the videochat window was silent, link dead. But an email alert was flashing. Another epistle:
where are you
where is the tape
Scotty got Homer food, dragged to the couch and flopped, head in hands. Shortly Homer appeared, licking his chops.
Bad trip?
Scotty sighed. “I failed my Mission, and now I missed my session. I’m in big trouble.”
And swearing, he lay back on the couch and stared at the ceiling.
Th
e next thing Scotty knew, it was overcast outside, a bright light in his window. Thunder crashed, and he could hear the throngs in the street crying and wailing. Louder than before, more than misery in their voices. Fear. Panic.
He jumped up and peered through the blinds. The crowd was bigger than ever, more agitated than ever. Sirens and horns blared in the distance.
Scotty bolted to the door and down, exiting onto the front stoop to find Mrs. Steiner and his other neighbors drawn out by the clamor, too. Also, the cabbie who’d driven him from the airport. Ivy with Homer in her arms. Reverend Thornton and Ms. Willoughby. Reggie and Zing, and Margo. On the sidewalk stood the homeless man he’d given money to, yelling up at him, “Troopers are comin’ for us, we’ve nowhere to go. Do something!”
Someone shouted, “Save us, Prophet! Lead us!”
What could he do? Lead them where? He was no more leader than prophet.
Another cried, “To the promised land! To the land of milk and honey!”
Ivy pleaded, “Help them, Scotty, there’s no one else.”
The sirens grew louder, and Scotty found his shepherd’s staff in his hand. As if possessed by a higher power, he stamped it against the steps. The crowd stilled and looked to him, and he called down to them, “To the mayor’s office.”
They opened a pathway for him, and Scotty raced down to the street, turning west into fog. The people fell in behind, sirens and klaxons closing. He picked up the pace, looking for the Queensboro Bridge. He should have reached it by now, but nothing looked familiar in the mist.
Lost, he stumbled down an embankment and came to a halt at a shoreline. The procession stacked up behind him, and abruptly the fog dissipated to reveal the choppy waters of the East River, the island of Manhattan gleaming on the other side through dark, menacing clouds. Scotty froze, he and his exodus trapped.
Homer cried, They’re coming!
Frantic, Scotty tapped his inner power once more, stretching his staff over the waters, commanding in a loud voice, “Behold the power of the Lord.”
Instantly the river began to roil and boil, drawing back from itself across the channel like a drape parting. A passage opened, flanked by walls of surging water. The crowd cheered, the sky rumbled, and Scotty felt a great heaviness in his heart.