Fire Of Heaven Book III Fire of Heaven

by Bill Myers

  It had started. Not because Brandon had forced it, or even sought it. It began simply as he thanked the Lord. He started thanking him for the small immediate things — the stark beauty of the rolling hills in front of him, their various shades of brown and gold and beige. The rocks at his feet — their shapes, their colors, their texture. He glanced over at Tanya and Jerry. What wondrous creations they were, each with their unique looks and gifts and personalities — Tanya with her honey blonde hair and perpetual drive, Jerry with his sweating bald top and sullen weariness. What marvelous diversity.

  These first few thoughts of thanks were purposely willed by Brandon. But once the pump had been primed, the praise came easier. Soon it was taking on a life of its own. The worship began to blossom, growing until he was caught up in it wholeheartedly. But not just worship over what God had created … worship over who God was. His goodness. His faithfulness. His majesty. With the worship came a reverent sense of awe … and with that awe came the love.

  As he basked in his love for the Lord, he began to feel the Lord’s love for him. It became a cycle. A cycle of adoration and love, one for the other, spiraling, drawing them closer and closer into each other, until Brandon was totally and completely immersed. And with the immersion came the spilling over. Unable to contain the love, it overflowed, pouring out from him toward all of creation. Once again Brandon was experiencing the Creator’s heart. And with that heart came the fire. It was the same fire he’d seen in the Lord’s eyes. The same all-consuming passion.

  Tears filled his eyes. But they were not his tears. The love, the gut-wrenching ache was God’s — his longing to embrace his children.

  And still the fire grew, radiating through his body until it centered in his chest. So much needless pain, so much self-inflicted suffering … when all they had to do was listen. The rules were not for him, they were for his children, for their well-being. Why wouldn’t they see? Why wouldn’t they obey?

  Tears spilled onto his cheeks. He couldn’t stop them. So much love. So much pain. He felt Tanya touch his knee. “Tell us,” she said softly, “tell us what you’re feeling.”

  He tried to speak, but the ache was unbearable.

  “Tell us …”

  He looked up. There was Jerry with his camera lens four feet away. But it was no longer just a lens. It was God’s children, millions of suffering children who needed their Father, who needed to be held. It was his bride, longing for her bridegroom, aching for his embrace, hungry for the only one who could satisfy her.

  A Scripture leaped into his mind, another memory verse. But it was more than a verse. It was alive — filled with the very presence of God, filled with his fire. At last Brandon opened his mouth, and at last he began to speak.

  “When I shut up the heavens so that there is no rain, or command locusts to devour the land or send a plague among my people …”

  He took a ragged breath and continued: “If my people, who are called by my name, will humble themselves …”

  Other words rushed in. They were not Scripture, but he knew they could be trusted, he knew they came from the fire. “My children! My bride! I have chosen you from before the beginning of the world. You carry my name, yet you do not live my life. Though I have given you power, you have not used it to pursue my holiness. Hear my plea. Heed my warning. Quit seeking your desires, quit seeking your kingdom. Humble yourselves and receive mine. Receive all that I am.”

  More words poured in and Brandon obeyed, speaking them as they came to his consciousness.

  “I am eternal. All else you pursue will burn. You fast in vain. You pray and plead and beg, but your efforts are futile. Look into my eyes and know what is eternal. Only when you behold my glory will your desires conform to mine. Only when you know me can you pray in my name.

  “Repent! Turn! I have given you the power to overcome. All you need to do is choose: your wickedness or my holiness, your death or my life. For without repentance there is no forgiveness. And without forgiveness we have no fellowship.”

  For the briefest second, Brandon caught a glimpse of life without God, and it nearly devastated him. A heaving sob escaped, and it was all he could do to hold back others.

  “Humble yourselves!” he shouted. “Seek my face! Turn! Then will I hear from heaven and will forgive your sin and will heal your land. My bride … my precious bride.” The words choked in Brandon’s throat as he realized he was also speaking to Sarah, his Sarah. “How my heart yearns for you. How I love and adore you … more than I did my very life. How I long for this time of suffering to end, and for the cup of my wrath to be emptied. But you will not have it.

  “You try to stop evil by changing others. Yet you do not cease from your own evil. Repent. Repent and turn your heart toward me. Repent and see if there is anything I would withhold from you. My arms are opened wide.”

  He continued to shout, pleading to the camera, pleading to Sarah, to whomever would listen. He could no longer tell if they were his words or the Lord’s. He suspected they were one and the same.

  “Turn from your adultery. Let my love break your grip on iniquity. Let my love strip you of your sin. Turn and run into my arms that I may hold you as I once did. Come to me that we may again share the intimacies of husband and wife. That we may again be one.”

  The final words came heavy and uneven. “For when we are one … when you are lost in my arms and when our hearts are intertwined, all of creation watches in awe. When we are one, delighting in each other’s pleasure, there is nothing, absolutely nothing you can withhold from me, and nothing I will withhold from you.”

  Brandon was hit by another set of wracking sobs. And then another. But there were no more words. Just the tears. He lowered his head. He had felt God’s presence; he had been consumed by his love and had spoken his words.

  Now there was only silence.

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER 15

  FOR SARAH MARTUS THE ride from Ben Gurion International Airport to Jerusalem was an eye-opener. In some ways she’d forgotten the worldwide fame of Lucas Ponte, let alone the international importance of the upcoming event. But now, everywhere she looked, there were reminders. There were the crowds standing outside the airport with banners to greet them. There was the fifty-two-kilometer drive to the city with every other streetlight along the highway supporting a different country’s flag. And as the motorcade wound its way through the limestone cliffs, there were the honking cars and waving drivers. They had no idea which of the three limos Lucas was in (one of the many Israeli security precautions), so they waved at all of them.

  When Sarah had pointed out the fervent devotion, Lucas had shaken his head and smiled. “It’s not for me; it’s only what I stand for.”

  “You mean the upcoming peace?” she asked.

  “Yes.” He sighed with weary satisfaction. “Finally our planet can have some rest.”

  Sarah nodded. Amidst her own life’s turmoil, it was easy to forget the significance of the last few days … and the upcoming ones. Still, there was the matter of Eric and her knowledge of who or what he was hosting. And, since there was no place for Lucas to hide or duck the issue inside the limo, she decided to bring it up again.

  As always, he listened with great attention. When she had finally finished voicing her concerns he spoke. “And yet, as far as you can tell, Heylel offers no physical danger to the boy.”

  “That’s true. But the psychological trauma for anyone, particularly in these early stages of adolescence, can be devastating. Surely, Katherine has told you what she’s seen.”

  Lucas shook his head. “A few brief remarks, but nothing of substance. Katherine can be quite elusive when she wants to be.”

  Sarah frowned. “But you knew about the death of his bodyguard? His outbursts of violence?”

  “Oh, that. Yes, yes of course. That I knew. That’s why we initially invited you to join us.”

  “And now this incident at the airport.”

  He shook his head. “Terrible, t
errible.” He leaned over to his secretary who was brooding over an itinerary in the seat facing them. “Deena, when we get to the hotel be sure to send our condolences to the family.”

  “Certainly.” She jotted down the note.

  “Also flowers.”

  Deena nodded and continued to write.

  Sarah watched. What had Katherine said? “He’s not as he appears.” She was beginning to understand. She saw it on the airport tarmac, and she saw it now. Lucas Ponte, the ultimate statesman — not only had he a gift for saying the right thing at the right time, but he was a pro at keeping his hands clean and avoiding any unpleasant confrontation.

  This time, however, she would not give up. “My point is —”

  “Oh.” He turned back to Deena. “And something for his partner, perhaps a gift reminding him that the Cartel would greatly appreciate his discretion in this matter.”

  “I understand.”

  “Lucas?”

  He turned back to her. “Yes, Sarah.” The sincerity in his eyes was so earnest that she almost believed him. Almost.

  “If Heylel is so dangerous,” she asked, “to both Eric and to others, why do you keep going to him for counsel?”

  “Because he has always proved accurate.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Should there be more?”

  “He’s a killer.”

  “Lucas?” Deena interrupted. “Excuse me, Sarah.” Without waiting for permission, she continued. “You have a meeting scheduled with the vice-chair at 1:15, but if you meet with Premier Orowitz at 2:00 I’m afraid we could create some diplomatic upsmanship. Perhaps it would be better to …”

  She continued speaking, but Sarah barely heard. It had happened again. The interruption. The sidestep. As they spoke, she turned and looked back out the tinted window. They were in the city now, heading down Jaffa Road. She craned her neck, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Old City, but the buildings blocked her view.

  When Deena finally finished, Sarah turned back to him. She would not be put off again. “Lucas?”

  He was studying his papers. There was the slightest trace of impatience in his voice. “Yes, Sarah.”

  “If Heylel is a killer, if he’s so dangerous, it seems incongruous that you would work with him toward world peace.”

  Lucas looked over to her, then broke into a smile. “You know so little of politics.”

  “I know Heylel is incredibly evil.”

  “We provide Heylel a service. In return he rewards us with his counsel.”

  “And that service … is Eric?”

  “Eric has voiced little opposition, and for his participation Heylel has promised him great things.”

  “You mean to let him rule the world.” Lucas hesitated, and she took advantage of the opportunity. “He’s just a boy, Lucas. You’re letting a boy prostitute himself for some sort of demonic power. Don’t you see it? The Cartel, all of you, you’re all prostituting yourselves for whatever information this Heylel has to offer.”

  “Sarah …”

  “What about your ethics? What about your ideals, what about —”

  “Ideals?”

  “Yes, what about —”

  “Ideals?”

  Sarah came to a stop.

  There was the smile again. This time he gently shook his head. “Sarah, Sarah, Sarah. The world is a very hostile place. Ideals are interesting in theory, good for classroom discussion. But I am afraid they don’t fare so well in world politics. Take a look out there.”

  Sarah turned to the window. They were approaching the King David Hotel, and people were lining the street to catch a glimpse of them. Some waved, others clapped.

  “These people, they are not interested in ideals. They are interested in survival. They want to live. They want their children to live. And in the end they will do whatever is necessary to make it so. In the real world everyone must pay a price. Everyone must prostitute themselves some way. It’s how we survive.” He patted her hand. “Prostitution does not have to be an evil thing, Sarah. Surely you understand that by now. You, better than most.”

  She wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. “Pardon me?”

  The car, which had pulled into the driveway of the hotel, came to a stop. “Ah, here we are.”

  Sarah glanced outside. People were gathered along the driveway. They crowded onto the sidewalk and spilled over to the front yard of the large YMCA building across the street.

  The car door opened and a young man in a dark blazer appeared. “Welcome to Jerusalem, Mr. Chairman.”

  Lucas smiled and turned on the charm. “Thank you … Mr… .” He paused, waiting for a name.

  “Zimmerman, sir. William Zimmerman. I’m head of security.”

  “Thank you, William.” Lucas stepped out of the car, and the crowd broke into cheers. He waved as bodyguards appeared from nowhere and quickly escorted him toward the entrance of the large six-story stone structure.

  Inside the car, Deena had gathered her things and stepped outside to follow. But as Sarah scooted across the seat to join her, she turned back and motioned for her to stay put. “You don’t get out here.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “For appearances. It is best you wait until the limo pulls to the service entrance on the side.”

  “Service entrance?”

  She nodded. “We don’t want the conservative factions to get the wrong impression, do we?”

  Sarah sat stunned.

  Deena smiled. “Don’t worry, we’ve secured a suite for you beside Lucas’s. I’ve been told it has a discrete connecting door.” Before Sarah could react, Deena smiled and shut the car door. The limo gave a slight jolt and pulled away.

  “But you can fight it, I know you can.”

  “Mom …”

  “Just like Coleman, remember? You still have free will.”

  “Mom …” Eric watched his mother rise to her feet. She began pacing around the large fifth-story suite that overlooked the Old City.

  “Maybe if we were to pray,” she offered. “Maybe if we were to ask God —”

  “Mom!” The sharpness of his voice turned her back to him. “I don’t want him to leave.”

  She crossed back to him. “Sweetheart … it may be exciting now, he may be making all sorts of promises. But eventually, eventually you’ll have to pay the price.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “You don’t … care?”

  He nodded and pushed up his glasses with his little finger. She took a deep breath and eased herself beside him on the sofa. He could tell she wanted to brush the hair out of his eyes the way she used to. He was grateful she didn’t try.

  “Don’t you see?” she asked. “You’ve become a different person. The sweet, loving Eric I used to know is —”

  “That Eric was a wimp!”

  “No.” The kindness in her voice made him uneasy. “That Eric was sensitive and kind. And he always used his gifts for good. Remember?”

  He felt his old weaknesses trying to creep in, and he glanced away.

  “Remember how he used to help people? Remember how you healed my face? How you helped that little blind girl at the compound?”

  “Tell her.” He wasn’t sure if it was his thoughts or Heylel’s. “Tell her the truth.”

  He rose and moved away from her toward the window. The Old City and its wall rested on the hill just a few blocks away. It had a green hue from the bulletproof glass in front of him. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I know what I see.” Her voice remained gentle.

  “We are using my gifts for good!”

  “Killing that policeman at the airport yesterday?”

  “He was in our way.”

  “And Deepak? He was a good friend, Eric. One of your favorites.”

  He felt himself faltering. “He … he made me mad.”

  “Eric, sweetheart …” She was up again, crossing toward him. “You have to make this thing stop.”

  �
��No!”

  “Do you want me to take over?” That was definitely Heylel speaking, though the two were becoming so close, it wasn’t always easy to tell. And that was the idea — to become so much at one with each other that when he thought, it was Heylel thinking, that when Heylel spoke, it was him speaking.

  His mother continued, softer. “I know you love Lucas, but —”

  He turned on her. “Love has nothing to do with it! He’s been valuable to us in the past, and he’ll be even more valuable in the future. Just you wait.”

  His mother hesitated, then continued. “I know you like the idea of the Cartel listening to you, that it makes you feel important —”

  “I am important!”

  “— but these people are not good, Eric. They’re evil.”

  “They’re going to help us rule the world!”

  His mother hesitated. “Maybe. But that doesn’t make them good. They’ve done things, sweetheart. Awful things. And they’ll continue to do them. They’ll continue to do them until —”

  “If you’re talking about Scorpion, I already know.”

  That stopped her. But only for a moment. “You … know about it?” Her voice was a little unsteady.

  Eric had the upper hand now. It was important to keep it. “Of course.”

  “You knew that all those people — that the Jews and Arabs — were being murdered?”

  “Knew about it?” He let out a short laugh. This would get her. “We told them how they could do it!”

  “Eric …”

  “Sure. Me and Heylel, we drew them the diagrams, we showed their genetic guys how to make it.”

  She could only stare.

  “And that won’t be the end of it,” he said. “Others are going to try to stop us, and we’re going to kill them, too. We’ll kill them all. We’ll kill anybody who gets in the way. Anybody.”

  He wanted to keep going, but his mother was already fighting back tears. It was enough for the time being. After all, she was still his mother. At least for now.

  If Brandon had been impressed by Turkey’s history and culture, he was overwhelmed by Jerusalem’s. With a past history thirty times longer than the United States, the Old City was home to four hundred holy sites, thirty denominations, three Sabbath days, seven alphabets, and fifteen languages. It was a jarring cacophony of life-threatening politics, swarming humanity, fierce prejudice, devout holiness, deep-rooted hatred, and beckoning merchants … all crammed within a half square mile of narrow streets and stone buildings. But there was something else here — beyond the history and humanity.