by Joe Derkacht
Episode Sixteen
Ranar is a place of worship. It is a cathedral world and is as much of a temple as any building ever was on old earth. The fact it is an entire world does not make it any less a temple, just as New Jerusalem is a temple though it is the City of God. Doesn’t even the Heavenly Father call Himself our Temple, and He is neither building, city, world, or even corporeal—He is Spirit?
What I’m wondering, as I write this, is whether the M’hah-hu-uuu can possibly understand Ranar’s purpose, when the truth is, I myself took years to fully appreciate that it sprang from a place far deeper than my own imagination or idle fancy. Most poignantly, to me, this world’s deeper purposes were first birthed in the heart of the Logos before being entrusted to my stewardship.
What I must really know before I presume to talk to them is if this truest dream of Ranar is theirs as well, or if in their heart of hearts they have simply ventured here because of some far lesser motivation? Is Ranar an adventure? A living scientific laboratory for their experiments? A coming tourist attraction? A suitable world for colonization or the exploitation of its natural wealth, whether plant, animal, or mineral?
I could ask their guardians. Doubtlessly, they could tell me what I wanted to know. But would they truly fathom the heart of a M’hah-hu-uuu like I myself would hope to, or trust I would, in due time? I don’t mean that as a criticism of the Angelic Orders. What I mean is that no angel truly ever knew any human being, especially that one who presumed to (whose name, other than that of Prince of Dystopia, is forever forgotten), when all he was really doing was projecting the foul image of himself on his victims. It took the King of Angels, creator of angels and men, and of all the universes besides, to truly understand Adam’s race.
It seemed to me that as Ranar’s Steward, as co-heir of Christ, the onus was upon me, which is why, despite the desires of their guardians, I was unwilling to reveal myself to them prematurely. Simply put, if they wanted to see me, they would have to prove themselves worthy.
“How will they do that, Steward of Ranar?” Bo’el asked. It was early morning, and we were once again standing in the field of crimson tulips, beside the M’hah-hu-uuu ship centered perfectly within the bull’s eye of majestic redwoods. All of us, including Bo’el, were dwarfed by the shadow of the trees.
From Leanhar’s gaze, I could tell he was every bit as intent upon my answer as Bo’el. Ever since the humor of the moment (a very long one at that) had faded between us (and the subsequent return of the M’hah-hu-uuu to their ship, where they were still holed up after a full week), he had been eager to know what was to come next.
When I didn’t immediately answer Bo’el, Leanhar uncharacteristically answered for me:
“It is not really a matter of what they do.”
I nodded my agreement. “It’s more of who they are.” For clarification, since I saw even more questions popping into his eyes, I asked him a question.
“Who they are determines what they do, don’t you think?”
My question, a rhetorical one, was simply politeness on my part. Bo’el mulled a response. Before he could voice more questions or doubts, I asked him when he thought his charges would come out from their hiding place. Or did he think they had no further plans of exploring Ranar? Were they preparing for a return to their own home planet?
When he didn’t answer, I turned to Leanhar, who began speaking to me in English, a tongue we both knew Bo’el and his angelic companions had not yet had opportunity to learn. In fact, they didn’t know any of earth’s old languages.
“I don’t think it’s because he doesn’t want to answer, Steward John. He doesn’t seem quite used to dealing directly with your kind.”
By that, I understood Leanhar meant with someone as close as myself to the top of the heavenly chain of command. Like most of the countless hosts of God, Bo’el was accustomed to receiving his orders indirectly, from angels of higher position than himself, of whatever order, rather than from El Elyon, and certainly not from the Redeemed, those who sit enthroned with El Elyon’s only Son. If he had wheels in his head, they would have been turning, probably even smoking with the effort.
“Reassure them, Bo’el,” I told him.
“How?”
“You’ve known them much longer than I have,” I said. “I’ll trust your experience.”
He was thinking again and at the same time listening to his two companions, who were back to speaking in the unfamiliar angelic tongue I’d first heard them using a week earlier. It was unfamiliar to me no longer. They were asking him if the protocols had changed, were they to now reveal themselves fully to the M’hah-hu-uuu?
“The protocols are the same,” I said in their own language. “We will reveal ourselves to them when the time is right.”
Bo’el nodded to them at once. They nodded respectfully to me and rose from the field, a moment later entering the ship through its solid hull.
“You’re not waiting, Steward John?” Bo’el asked, anxiously seeing me start toward Mt. Fe.
I shook my head. “Let us know when they come out again.”
“But what if they don’t? What if they decide to return to M’hah-hu-uuu-thu-P’nar?”
P’nar was the name of their planet. What they wished, under the present circumstances, didn’t matter.
“They are not to leave without my permission.”
“But if they—”
“You are Bo’el, guardian of their comings, as your name suggests. You will guard now against their going.”
“Yes,” he said, nodding his giant head, which was as big as a fair-sized boulder. “I understand.”
Leanhar and I, along with our own companions, continued toward Mt. Fe.