by Joe Derkacht
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I awoke to a serpentine form rising above me, its neck arching upwards, until it towered as high as a tall palm tree, with twin pools of shadow for eyes. Hesitating, as if preparing to lunge in my direction, it abruptly swung about, offering a glimpse of massive shoulders, its proud silhouette adumbrating a halo of Fair Ranar’s twinkling stars. Among those stars an angel winged his sleepless way, his glory illumining the nearer landscape like a beacon. Brontonella, eyes kindled by that brightness, thrummed forth her deepest, most heart-wrenching call toward the heavens, and the angel answered with a song of praise, his rich voice singing out to me from across the universe. At the same time, a moving wall of beastly sounds—a whole midnight choir of Ranar’s creatures—seemed to flow through and past me, dopplering away, as the angel disappeared over the far horizon.
As if in tandem with Leanhar’s descent, whose signature glory I’d easily recognized, Brontonella sank beneath the waters. Wavelets lapped the shore. The peaceful waters still sounding in my ears, I suddenly felt myself launched into the sky without benefit of an angelic escort. Ranar’s home star, leaping into view, flew over my head like a swift freight train and passed me by in a concert of other streams of light I knew to be stars. In moments, I had burst from the nearer star field and was in the gulf between galaxies.
The field of view swiveled, offering up a quickly receding Sombrero galaxy. Another galaxy appeared beside it, as much like it as a twin. Both receded, and in their light I saw great compassionate eyes contemplating me: dwindling alike, they became the eyes of a familiar face—the face of Jesus—with other galaxies constituting ears, nose, mouth, beard. The universe smiled an impromptu portrait of its Maker, the Great Pointillist Himself.
Just as abruptly as I’d been launched into the heavens, the wall facing my couch from which I’d viewed a nocturnal Ranar and the subsequent heavenly portrait reverted to one of my favorite landscapes—of verdant foothills sheltering beneath a snowcapped mountain. A well-worn track led out of those hills, a track filled with sheep. The sheep were trailed by a lonely figure carrying a lamb curled about his shoulders.
“Have you rested well?” the shepherd asked, looking directly at me.
“Yes, Lord,” I answered, chuckling with recognition. The humble figure was now the Good Shepherd.
“We have all time,” He said, before I could mention that I should be up, that I had a summons to answer. I could hardly argue with the One who had established both day and night and the times and the seasons.
“Refresh yourself, Steward John,” He continued. “Drink deeply of the water of life, and fellowship with old friends.”
“The summons, Lord—” I began, reminded of its strangeness.
“You will have my strength when you need it.”
“Thank you, Lord,” I said, vaguely wondering why He would mention that particular ancient axiom. Whatever the reason, it seemed He intended to let His Father answer my questions, because He said only one more thing:
“Zell will have further instructions for you, little brother.”
Sight, smell, and sound told me the sheep were nearly upon me, close enough to touch. Feeling the ground shake under their hooves, I saw them swirl out and around me, barely avoiding trampling me. For a moment, the Good Shepherd towered over me, and then sheep and Shepherd vanished from sight. The lonely track, though infinitely nobler for the feet that had passed over it, was once again empty.
Staring, I lingered a few minutes longer, enjoying the hills and the farther mountain, actually the Matterhorn, to gauge whether I had matched it for its beauty and majesty on Ranar, where I had erected one that could be its sister.
“Zell…” A smile rippled through me as I heard that name whispered.
“Yes,” I said, rising from my couch. Regardless of having all time, it seemed I should get moving.