by Joe Derkacht
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I found Zell at our usual place, in a grove beside the River of Life, along with multitudes of the Redeemed either lolling on its banks or cavorting in its water. She was conversing with an angel once mistaken by many for a cherub, one of those our ancient artists called a putto. Held aloft on hummingbird wings, he turned shining eyes toward me and without speaking reached with childish hands to lay a garland upon my head.
Still dazzled by the aftereffects of my experience in the repository courtyard, I sucked in my breath, inhaling deeply; woven of leaves from the Tree of Everlasting Life, its fragrance was as life giving as the tree it came from. My mind sharpened instantly, like it would from eating the fruit of those same trees. My grateful smile proved sufficient thanks to send him on his way, rejoicing at having offered humble service to one of the Redeemed.
“You didn’t wait for me,” I said immediately to Zell.
Her eyes flashed teasingly. “You’re not the only pebble on the beach, John.” Reaching into a fruit-laden branch above our heads, she plucked off a handful of berries. I expected her to hand over at least several; I could already taste them, the explosion of flavor more intense than anything old earth ever knew. Instead, her brows lifted questioningly, her blue eyes darting past me. A man approached us through the trees. As if timed precisely for his arrival, the music of the river chose that moment to reach a resounding crescendo, and with it the voices and songs of Heaven.
“I’ve always deeply respected you planetary stewards,” he said, handing over a fruit that might have inspired the earthly mango. Before I could recover myself enough to reply, he melted back into the trees.
Zell’s brows rose again, this time in my direction. I’m not sure I could have answered her if she were to actually say anything. For myself, I’d never before encountered Abel, son of the first Adam, and in my mind’s eye I still saw people and angels parting for him, yielding to the great dignity of old earth’s first martyr.
Not just planetary stewards in general—you planetary stewards, he had said. I wondered if he meant as opposed to his father Adam’s failure, a failure that led years later to meeting his brother Cain in a lonely field? Regardless, coming from him I considered it high praise indeed.
My mind flashed back to Fair Ranar and Samuel Draper’s summons, to the succession of events leading to this latest encounter, which seemed to be a sort of exclamatory flourish upon it all. Nothing happened by mere coincidence, leastwise not in Heaven. Were all these meant to prepare me for my summons? To reassure me in the face of its peculiarities?
“It’s time, don’t you think?” Zell asked.
“Time?”
“Time you saw Brother Ruben,” she said. “Remember to take the very best gift you can find.” Time to prepare for my summons, she meant. Walking toward the River, she waved goodbye.
“You’re leaving?” I asked.
“I have a life to live, too, you know,” she called back. “Besides, I’ve done as I was asked.”
“But I thought you would go with—”
“Don’t worry, John,” she interrupted. “Remember you’re in Heaven. It’s not like being called to the principal’s office.”
Waving airily in my direction, she kept on walking, grinning to herself, I supposed, as conscious as ever of how she’d always been able to point out the ridiculous in me—conveniently forgetting that no earthly principal ever knew me down to every atom of my being.
Now beyond the trees and unseen, her voice carried back to me. “You do remember that our Father does all things well, don’t you?”