The Rising: Antichrist is Born / Before They Were Left Behind

by Tim LaHaye

  “I don’t think Bobby’s family is into any of that.”

  “Maybe not, but keep your distance. Those people think they’ve got the inside track on the truth.”

  Ray had no more idea what his dad meant than he did about what Bobby had talked about.

  Viviana Ivinisova asked everyone to bow their heads, close their eyes, and turn their palms toward heaven. “After a moment of silence, I will open in prayer.”

  Marilena wanted to peek at her husband, but she would wait until Ms. Ivinisova started praying, just to be sure the woman didn’t notice. Sorin had never been one to be told what to do, and she couldn’t imagine him doing any one of the things Viviana suggested, let alone all three.

  “Find peace within yourself,” the leader intoned. “Center, focus, lay aside all earthly cares.”

  Marilena tried. Whatever this was, it could be her salvation from the torment of wanting and needing something so badly that the very hunger for it had come to define her. Might she somehow find the freedom to channel her energies into something new, something different, something that would loose her from the torture of longing to embrace every baby she saw? A friend once told her that when she was away from her baby son more than half a day, she felt a literal ache in her arms that could not be salved until she held him again.

  Marilena had hidden her amusement, but now she understood. She knew. She would stare at strangers’ babies and wonder what the parents would do or say if she asked to hold the child. She had been able to corral her emotions, but at times she trembled with longing. It was as if an outside force had implanted this desire within her. Marilena had not conjured it, but she certainly owned it now, and she didn’t know how long she could survive without its being fulfilled.

  “And now,” Viviana prayed, “I beseech all the best and most willing cooperative agents from the spirit world to grace us with their presence. I disinvite hostile, negative spirits. And to the one and only epitome of beauty and glory and majesty and power, I offer myself to serve as your conduit, your channel, a vessel for whatever messages you have for us tonight. Come, bright star.”

  Something stirred within Marilena. Praying to something or someone in the great beyond was wholly foreign to her, but perhaps she was overdue to step outside the convention and comfort of academia. Even if this was folderol, it certainly could do her no harm. She glanced at Sorin, not surprised to see him staring with glee at the strange woman praying. If nothing else, he would certainly thank Marilena for favoring him with an evening’s entertainment.

  She knew Sorin would rather sit out of view, where he could read. But they sat in the middle of the group, and even he would not be so rude.

  Viviana sat at a table and carefully took several sheets from various folders and set them before her. She sat back and steepled her fingers. “Before I reveal pasts and futures, I have been given one message for you tonight. There is no need to write it down, as you will not forget it. Ready? Listen carefully now. . . .” She closed her eyes and lowered her head. Then she raised her head until she faced the ceiling. “The doorway to happiness is rebellion.”

  Marilena squinted and repeated the sentence in her mind. Several others hummed or grunted as if overcome by this truism.

  Viviana repeated it, lowered her head, smiled, and opened her eyes to scan the room.

  Happiness? Marilena thought. Who wants a doorway to happiness? Contentment, perhaps. Comfort. Peace. But happiness? It hit her as a vapid pursuit. Reading, studying, discussing, learning—those brought fulfillment, some purpose.

  And rebellion against what? Convention? The establishment?

  Suddenly Viviana stood and moved to the side of her table, her eyes clear and piercing. Marilena sensed others tensing, sitting straighter, as if expectant. The leader spread her feet ever so slightly, as if to give herself a more solid base. She raised her hands, palms open, closed her eyes, and let her head fall back.

  Just above a whisper, Viviana seemed to breathe sentences. “Someone this week allowed himself to believe in a world on another plane,” she said.

  “Me,” came the nervous voice of a man in the back. Marilena started to turn but caught herself. In her peripheral vision Sorin was shaking his head, his mouth covered against what she was sure was an outburst of hilarity.

  “The spirit urges you,” Viviana said, “to believe. Believe with all your heart and soul, but resist the temptation to judge factions in the netherworld based on myth.”

  “I don’t understand,” the man managed.

  Viviana, face still pointed to the ceiling, held up a hand higher. “Remember that the doorway to happiness is rebellion. Rebels, even in the great beyond, are often proved right.”

  “Mm,” someone said.

  “Um-hm,” another added.

  Viviana pressed her fingers to her temples, then lowered her head and buried her face in her hands. She appeared to swoon.

  Marilena sensed expectation all over the room. Was Ms. Ivinisova a fake? Was this hocus-pocus? Or was she really getting some sort of a message?

  “Someone here is interfering with the communication,” Viviana said, and in spite of herself Marilena felt guilty. “Skepticism, disbelief, a scoffing spirit interrupts.”

  I want to believe, Marilena thought. But this is so alien to me. Viviana had somehow known that a man had joined the ranks of the believers. Could there be anything to this, or had Marilena fallen for a parlor trick?

  “Stand by,” Viviana said. “Not all is as dark as it appears, as the skeptic is a newcomer. Perfectly understandable.”

  Marilena felt absolved but also conspicuous. There weren’t that many newcomers. Would people know it was she?

  “That would be me,” Sorin said, his tone springing across a stage of suppressed laughter.

  “Perfectly understandable,” Viviana said again.

  “I find this all—,” Sorin began.

  “Understandable,” Viviana said, forcefully now. “I beg your indulgence.”

  Sorin sat shaking his head, and Marilena nudged him, wishing he would leave or keep quiet. His smile faded, and he looked at her with such contempt and disgust that she wished she had left him alone.

  “Silence,” Viviana said, her voice a whisper again. “Someone else is puzzled.”

  That, Marilena decided, was a colossal understatement. Her heart hammered against her ribs.

  “You’re wondering whether happiness is even a worthy goal,” Viviana said. “You’re willing to settle for contentment, perhaps. Comfort or peace. Fulfillment, some purpose in life.”

  Marilena folded her arms and rocked, fearing she might pass out. Those were her very thoughts. How was this possible? Could Viviana Ivinisova be a mind reader? Marilena had seen the best gypsy fortune-tellers in action, and she had been able to detect their tricks. But this?

  “And you’re asking yourself what the spirit means by rebellion,” Viviana said. “Rebellion against what? Convention? The establishment?”

  Marilena fought to keep from hyperventilating.

  “This is not a trick,” Viviana said. “I am not a mind reader. I am in tune with the spirit world.”

  It was all Marilena could do to keep from escaping, but Sorin’s loud laugh distracted her. When she burst into tears, he quickly quieted and looked embarrassed.

  Viviana moved to switch off the lights. Marilena considered that a most thoughtful gesture. Viviana returned to her table and pulled a small candle and holder from deep within a pocketed folder. Setting the candle before her, she sat and lit it and bowed. “I am open, angel of light,” she said.

  Marilena could not turn her eyes away.

  “Yes,” Viviana said. “Yes, yes, yes. Thank you. Yes.”

  Sorin sighed loudly, and Marilena decided she would slap him if he drew one more iota of attention to himself. She was fully aware how strange this all was, and she would have been astounded had her intellectual husband responded in any other way. But he had not had the woman recite his very thoughts wor
d for word.

  Ray’s parents took him out for fast food, and they began eating as soon as they sat down.

  “How come we don’t pray in public like we do at home?”

  “That would be showy, dear,” his mother said. “The Bible says we’re supposed to pray in secret, not be seen by men.”

  “The Bible says lots of other stuff we don’t agree with,” Ray said.

  “Like what?” his father said.

  “That we’re all sinners, born that way.”

  Mr. Steele stopped in midchew. “More browbeating from Bobby and his family?”

  “Browbeating?”

  “Preaching, proselytizing—call it what you want.”

  Ray shrugged. “Bobby said that was in the Bible, that’s all.”

  “Bible also says God told the children of Israel to kill every man, woman, and child of nations that didn’t believe in Him.”

  “Honey!” Ray’s mother said.

  “Well, it does,” her husband said. “If we’re going to get into everything the Bible says and start taking it literally, it’s going to do the boy more harm than good.”

  “I know,” she said, “but can we keep our voices down?”

  “I thought we believed the Bible,” Ray said.

  “To a degree,” his dad said. “It says God is love. You believe that?”

  “Well, sure, yeah. Why not?”

  “Killing every living soul that disagrees with Him sound like love to you?”

  Ray wished he hadn’t gotten into this. “It really says that?”

  His dad nodded, mouth full. “And when the children of Israel disobeyed, God slaughtered a bunch of them. Now you tell me. If that’s true, if that’s literal, what does that say about God? If He was the definition of love, wouldn’t He be fair and compassionate? The Bible says something about Him being slow to anger and willing that none should perish. I don’t know how long it took Him to get angry with the so-called pagan nations, but if you take the Old Testament literally, He sure was willing for them to perish.”

  Ray studied his father. “So you don’t believe the Bible?”

  “ ’Course I do. I’m just saying it can’t always mean what it says. God can’t be loving and merciful yet vengeful enough to wipe out people who don’t follow Him. People get confused when they take everything literally; that’s all I’m saying. Like your friend. He probably thinks Jesus is the only way to God.”

  “Probably. Don’t we? Why do we go to a Christian church?”

  “Because that’s what we know. That’s how we were raised. But the minute we start thinking our way is the only way, well, if you ask me, that’s not godly. I believe God helps those who help themselves. And I also believe that every religion is basically worshiping the same God. It’s like God is at the top of a mountain. Any religion, any good one, I mean—the kind that makes you want to be a better person, help your fellow man, that kind of stuff—will get you there. We all take different paths, but we all eventually get to the same place.”

  “To God.”

  “Exactly.”

  That sounded reasonable to Ray. He didn’t plan to argue it with Bobby. They could still be friends and just ignore their differences.

  “So what about God killing off the pagan people?”

  Mr. Steele shook his head and stuffed his burger wrapper into the bag. “It just has to mean something else,” he said. “It’s symbolic. Figurative. Know what that means?”

  “I think so. So the stories about the battles and the killing and the getting slaughtered if you don’t obey, all that stands for something else.”

  “Right.”

  “Like what?”

  “Hm?”

  “What does it stand for? If you don’t do what God tells you, you get squashed?”

  “No, that wouldn’t be a loving God either, would it?”

  “No. So what does it mean?”

  “I don’t know. I just know it can’t mean what it says.”

  “Some things,” Ray’s mother said, “are not for us to know this side of heaven. You can ask God when you get there.”

  “And we’re sure we’re getting there?”

  “Of course,” his dad said.

  “How?”

  “By doing the best we can, treating people right, following the Golden Rule, making sure our good outweighs our bad.”

  Ray got a new view of his father that day. He could be an embarrassing old guy, but he sure was smart.

  FOUR

  TALL AND THIN, the man with the razor-cut hair and wearing a gray woolen suit gazed out the floor-to-ceiling windows of his top-floor office. He loved the way Manhattan sparkled in the early evening as streetlights flickered on all over town.

  Both morning and afternoon papers and news reports had been filled with war and near-war tension all over the globe. Three hurricanes sat single file off the coast of Florida, weathermen predicting the most devastating natural disasters that state had ever seen. Tornado alley was gearing up for what promised to be the worst season in history. Volcanoes erupted on every continent and several more hinted at following suit.

  The man turned slowly and leaned over his desk, resting on his palms. Careful with his fresh manicure and understated yet exquisite and ridiculously expensive jewelry, he pressed the intercom button.

  “Yes, Mr. S.?”

  “Fredericka, I need you to hand deliver a message for me.”

  “Certainly, sir. Where to?”

  “Paris. This evening.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I have family coming in and—”

  “It must go tonight for delivery in the morning. That won’t be a problem, will it?”

  There was a pause, then a sigh. “Is it ready?”

  “Five minutes.”

  The man sat and wrote on linen paper with an ancient fountain pen.

  Auguste, let’s call in the commission for a meeting in Le Havre for Monday week. And please inform R. Planchette that the time for Project People’s Victory is nearly at hand. Best, J.S.

  Viviana Ivinisova had sat in silence for nearly a full minute, her head bowed before the flickering candle, elbows on the table, hands raised.

  “Someone feels a deep, personal need,” she said finally. “A longing. Have faith. Your wish will be fulfilled. Your dream will come true.”

  Could it be? Marilena wondered. That could mean anything from someone short of cash to someone in a bad relationship. Or Viviana could have been reading Marilena’s own thoughts again.

  It had taken all the fortitude Marilena could muster that first night to keep from telling Sorin that Viviana Ivinisova had been communicating directly to her with a message from beyond the pale. But the farther she and her husband got from the library and the closer they came to their apartment, the less she believed it herself. How could she be so naïve as to have been taken in by a charlatan? She believed in neither heaven nor hell, God nor Satan, clairvoyance nor fortune-telling.

  Marilena was an existentialist, a humanist, a woman of letters, a student, a scholar, a professor. She believed in the material world, that which could be seen and felt. Worse, the evening had had the opposite effect on her problem than she hoped. Rather than distract her from the longing for a child, Viviana had all but promised that her dream would be fulfilled.

  Marilena was unaware she was shaking her head until it distracted Sorin from his reading. “What?” he said.

  “She was not specific,” Marilena said.

  He laughed aloud. “Of course she wasn’t! Did you expect anything else? She was good; I’ll grant her that. Entertaining. And the drama! The dark, the candle, the closed eyes, the raised hands, the dramatic pauses. I’m surprised she didn’t ask if someone in the room had someone important in their life whose name begins with an S. I mean, who doesn’t?”

  “But you’ll go back with me one more time, like you promised?”

  “What? You’re serious? You’d go back?”

  “You promised, Sorin.”

  “T
hat’s not the issue, Marilena. You know I keep my word. But I cannot fathom why you would return. Surely you had to assume what you would encounter. Why would you want to go back?”

  She shrugged. “Don’t presume to think for me, Sorin. If I’m intrigued, I’m intrigued. I didn’t say I was buying into anything.”

  “You used to be so levelheaded. So bright.”

  “And now I’m not bright because I want to go one more time? You agreed to go with me twice.”

  He shut his book and slumped in his seat. “Do you have any idea how I felt?”

  “You appeared amused.”

  “Amused was the least of it. Conspicuous. Humiliated. Horrified that someone I know might see me there. Honestly, Marilena, if it is recreational for you, feel free. But don’t make me go.”

  “Only once more.”

  “Will it embarrass you if I sit in the back and read?”

  “Yes, but I can’t expect anything else.”

  “Does it have to be this particular class? Could we not find some traveling carnival within the next few days that would satisfy my obligation?”

  “You said yourself she was good.”

  “A good entertainer, yes. But if I want to be entertained, I’ll watch an action movie.”

  “You hate those.”

  “Well, there you are.”

  “Sorin, you promised, and that’s that.”

  The following Tuesday Marilena and Sorin had been welcomed even more effusively by those who recognized them from the week before. Sorin would have none of it. He refused to make eye contact, to shake hands, to engage in banter. He strode directly to the back row, muttering, “Yes, yes, hello, wonderful to see you again too,” and didn’t even unbutton his coat. He buried his face in his book, this time Exposing Paranormal Charlatans, and refused to look up.

  Marilena was used to being ignored in public settings outside the university. There she was respected by colleagues and students, but it did not escape her that her plain—no, dowdy—appearance seemed to make her invisible elsewhere. She didn’t know and had quit caring what people must have assumed about her. She did not look wealthy. No one could have known that she and her husband, though they lived modestly, were not in debt because they carefully managed their dual incomes.