by Glenn Kleier
“Not very convincing, is he,” Hunter smirked.
“How can he be?” Cissy sympathized. “There's no questioning what Jeza said in that hall. And if you happen to believe in her, you're quaking on your knees right now, ticking off the minutes till the Cataclysm.”
“I have to say,” Feldman interjected, “some of her comments struck a chord with me. Like her points about man's obsession with religious trivia and rituals—those tiny pebbles theologians stumble over.”
Feldman vividly recalled what certain relatively minor distinctions between the Jewish and Catholic religions had done to disrupt his parents’ marriage. Many times, as a frightened, clueless little boy, he'd intervened futilely in bitter quarrels over trifling issues. In the grand scheme of things, did it truly matter whether the proper day of Sabbath was Saturday or Sunday?
Not to mention his parents’ great, classic bone of contention—whether or not Jesus Christ was, indeed, the promised Redeemer. This, too, was an inconsequential issue, Feldman had later come to decide. After all, the core principles of both the Jewish and Catholic faiths were the Ten Commandments, and since few on either side of the religious coin seemed to master even these simple, clear-cut tenets, Feldman saw no point in arguing more abstract doctrine.
“Look how all me religions out there squabble among themselves,” Feldman remarked, “each claiming to be the one true faith. There's absolutely no way for the sincere, well-meaning worshiper of the world to really know for sure which religion, if any, is right.”
“Will the real God stand up?” Hunter snorted, irreverently. “Where is the Supreme Waldo?”
Feldman shook his head and rocked back in his chair. “Look, I know we're all supposed to be professional, impartial, hard-nosed journalists here, but can you guys continue to sit there and tell me this whole Jeza thing isn't starting to spook you just a bit?”
No answer.
“Think about it,” Feldman expounded. “Beyond all those amazing capabilities Jeza got from the Negev lab, there's still a hell of a lot going on that doesn't quite compute. Just look at all the hundreds of afflicted people over the last two months who've claimed she's cured them. Some of them have been pretty damn convincing. It can't all be psychosomatic, can it?
“Then, there are those odd little things she seems to have prior knowledge about. On the plane ride over from Cairo, she warned me about upcoming turbulence before the pilot did, for chrissakes!
“And have you ever wondered why it is WNN always happens to be in the right place at the right time? It's wearing a bit thin trying to explain everything as simply a bunch of bizarre coincidences.”
Hunter emitted a short laugh. “It's a hell of a lot easier than explaining them as miracles.”
Feldman shot right back. “You pile up enough coincidences, that in itself is a miracle.”
“Well,” Cissy admitted, “I don't claim to have an explanation for all those things, but I do have a theory about this mission from the Father she's frightening everybody about.” She looked around to make certain no one could overhear her, and then cautiously lowered her voice. “I think Jeza's reacting to a subliminal message Jozef Leveque planted inside her to help her handle the military infusion stuff. You know, a safety valve or protective default or whatever.
“I mean, wouldn't you do something to protect your child from that kind of brainwashing? And men later, when Jeza got mixed up with that Samaritan cult, she simply got Leveque's message confused with all the doomsday garbage they fed her. So now she thinks her mission is to prepare for an Apocalypse.”
“Jesus, I don't know what to believe anymore.” Feldman groaned loudly. “I've managed to live my whole adult life with this God thing shoved over in a corner. I couldn't make any sense of it. I'd look for God, but I could never see Him. I was fed up with all the bickering religions and their contradictory theologies and preachy gibberish. And now, I find myself pulling out all my confusions and dusting them off again.”
He took off his ball cap and ran his fingers through his dark hair. “I don't know what's happening here, guys, but I have to tell you, there's something very strange going on, and it's starting to worry me.”
“Don't tell me you buy into all this scare talk about the Last Day?” Cissy asked, disbelievingly.
“No,” Feldman assured her. “At least, not a biblical Last Day.” His face clouded. “But if you look at where this whole millenarian movement is heading, certainly all the ingredients are here for one hell of a confrontation. What you call it, I guess, just depends on your perspective.”
“Well, I'll give you a videographer's perspective if you want one,” Hunter offered. “This is a Cataclysm, all right. A Cataclysm of crap! Jeza is as crackers as they come. I agree with Cissy. Jeza's brain is all twisted up from those mad scientist experiments they did on her. She really believes she's some sort of Messiah. And why the hell not? What else has she got? No parents. No family. No childhood. No sex life. Nothin’. Nothin’ but bullshit illusions of grandeur, stuck in her head from some damn computer and those goddamn Samaritans.
“But I tell you what, whether she's responsible for her actions or not, if that little woman continues down the hell-bent path she's on, she's gonna find herself in a lot hotter water than she's already in. It's one thing to have a bunch of religious fanatics out to burn your ass. It's an altogether more serious deal to mess with the international conduct of business and nations. And the rest of the world aside, she's destabilizing the Mideast, man. She's threatening the oil lanes. And when you do that, you run afoul of the CIA and the National Security Administration— and a whole lot worse!”
This ominous observation was not a welcome insight for Feldman. He sighed. Despite his misgivings about Jeza, he could not deny a strange affection growing inside him for the desolate little woman he'd left resting alone in the airplane beyond. An admiration for her convictions, her remarkable poise and mysticism.
And also a great pity. He could not ignore the basic truth in Hunter's statements. Despite the technological marvel of her mind and her extraordinary abilities, she was, after all, only human. And sooner or later, she was going to have to come to terms with the unpleasant facts about her true nature.
73
Mormon Convention Center, Salt Lake City, Utah 7:09 P.M., Sunday, March 5, 2000
Alphonse Cardinal Litti was not quite sure how to take all the attention. In only a matter of hours, he'd gone from relative obscurity to international acclaim. Suddenly, he'd become the official Exegete Extraordinaire in matters concerning the mysterious Jeza.
In the lobby of the Convention Hall, Litti was surrounded by hot lights, cameras, microphones and avid news crews, all crowding in to hang on his every word. What had initiated all this uproar were the predictions he had made in his preconvocation TV interview. Litti had proclaimed Jeza to be a bona fide Messiah and flatly declared that she'd be calling for the abolishment of all organized religions as seriously flawed and failed institutions. When, out of hundreds of opinions televised, Litti's proved exclusively and absolutely dead-on correct, the networks and the world at large took respectful and immediate notice.
“Tell us when and where the meeting between Jeza and the pope will take place,” a newswoman shouted, jabbing a microphone at the cardinal's face.
“We're not sure yet,” Litti responded, perspiring under the lights and feeling a bit overwhelmed. “We're hoping for two weeks from today, possibly in Rome. I know that communications with the Vatican commenced a short while ago, immediately after the Messiah left the hall.”
“What about all this talk of Armageddon another root porter called out. “You seem to know Jeza's mind better than anybody. Are we heading for doomsday?”
“I cannot claim to know the Messiah's mind.” Litti smiled, flattered by the overstatement. “But I do feel I have somewhat of an understanding, an insight if you will, gleaned from careful reflection on Her teachings. I believe that a day of reckoning is imminent, just as She stated. The
world has had two thousand years to absorb Christ's message and to respond properly to it. In that regard, unfortunately, we've failed badly.”
“So you're predicting all-out war, battles to the death, neighbor turning against neighbor, just as the prophetess stated?” yet another reporter asked.
“I predict nothing, and I truly don't yet know exactly what this ‘dark hour of dissolution’ means. I hope we'll get more clarification during the pope's audience with the Messiah.”
The questions continued, and for the time being, it appeared that Alphonse Cardinal Litti would be a highly sought after spiritual resource for a gravely distressed and confused world.
74
Salt Lake City Airport, Utah 6:07 A.M., Monday, March 6, 2000
Jeza had been up early, before any of the others, well before the seven A.M. takeoff. When Feldman came yawning out of his cabin, he found her sitting cross-legged in her passenger seat, earphones on, eyes closed, hands folded in her lap, meditating.
Although Feldman was quiet in his approach, no sooner did he draw next to her than she spoke. “Good morning, Jon,” she said, her eyes still closed.
“Good morning, Jeza,” he replied. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yes. And you?”
“Well frankly, I'm having rather unusual dreams these days. It doesn't make for peaceful sleep.”
She opened her eyes and evaluated him soberly. “This is not a time for peaceful sleep,” she said, and removed her earphones.
Feldman decided the Messiah was in a mood to talk this morning. “May I join you?” he asked.
She nodded and he sat down expectantly in the seat next to her. “Well,” he started, not really knowing where to begin, “yesterday was quite a day for you.”
“Yes,” she said. “And now we must prepare for yet another important day. You are making arrangements for me to meet with the sovereign of the Roman Catholic Church?”
“That's in the works,” Feldman answered. “Needless to say, WNN will be delighted to sponsor that trip, too. Our people are in direct contact with all three papal representatives at the convocation. We're hopeful of scheduling a meeting in two weeks, Sunday, March 19, if that's acceptable to you.”
“Yes, I thank you,” she said, appreciatively.
Since she appeared a willing conversationalist at the moment, Feldman hoped to shed some light on a few topical questions.
“Jeza,” he ventured, “do you know that your comments yesterday caused a great deal of unrest in the world? Particularly your prophecies about Armageddon. Many people are extremely upset. Some have even committed suicide.”
“Know that the future would bring far more deaths and suffering without my warnings,” she replied, some sternness edging her voice.
“Can you do nothing to prevent this Apocalypse from taking place?” Feldman refused to be discouraged from his line of questioning. “Can't you just call it off? Forgive the people and give them another chance?” He was patronizing her, hoping to extract a more conciliatory statement that might help ease global tensions. “Isn't that what Christianity is all about?”
“This is not of my will, nor of the Father's making,” she responded. “What is to be is a conspiracy of man. Come of man's failure to hear the Word. The stubbornness and arrogance of man turn the truth such that good becomes evil and evil, good. Just as an infection of the body must rupture to purge its poison, so must this festering wound be lanced that it may be cleansed and healed.”
This simile did not sit well with Feldman before breakfast. On the spur of the moment, and with considerable reservations, he decided it was time to brave a precarious topic—the same issue he'd almost broached on their flight over, but had decided not to chance prior to the convocation. However, in the face of the current, tumultuous global conditions, he felt the gamble was worth taking.
“Jeza,” he asked, gingerly, “what are your earliest memories of yourself?”
She looked thoughtful. “My earliest memory is my first moment of awareness, the night of the white light and trembling earth when the Father breathed into me my soul, and delivered unto me His message.”
“Do you know anything about your parents?” Feldman asked. “Where you came from?”
“I issue from God and man,” she said.
“Do you recall an explosion, Jeza, or perhaps a big fire before the night of the white light and trembling earth?”
“No,” she said, looking casually out the window.
Feldman could not get a read on her. There was no emotion in her answers.
“Do you recall being found injured in a desert by a Bedouin couple?”
“No.”
Feldman paused, reflected, and decided to try a different approach. “Jeza, you seem to have a great deal of knowledge about things with which you've never come in contact. Do you have any idea how you arrived at such knowledge?”
She turned back to face him. “All that I know comes from the Father,” she replied.
Feldman pondered his next move carefully. His calculated intent here was to confront Jeza with the reality of her origins, and he fully appreciated the inherent hazards in this gambit. Regardless of how distasteful the exercise might be, it was his job. As a journalist, he had to seek out the truth.
He looked down at her angelic, childlike-yet-wise face as she stared intently up at him. An apprehensive crease appeared on her brow, as if she were anticipating him.
He opened his mouth, and then suddenly hesitated. For whatever reason, he simply could not bring himself to tell her who she really was. Exhaling, he blinked and turned away, disappointed at his sudden cowardice. He searched his mind, unsuccessfully, for an explanation. Perhaps he too readily recalled how his own personal world was once similarly destroyed. He abruptly changed the subject.
“Jeza, how is it that your eyes have such an effect on people? Just by staring at someone, you seem to be able to render them light-headed and disoriented.”
“God looks at people through my eyes,” she explained, simply. “And I see into their souls. I know their hearts.”
In demonstration, she focused intently on Feldman, and once more, he underwent that familiar, discomfiting sensation of utter invasion, confusion and vulnerability. His soul lay naked before her. His cheeks reddened with embarrassment.
Her eyes slowly widened, and then narrowed with her presumed insight. Sadly she murmured, “Behold the child who has borne the parents!”
Her face softened as she looked through him. She took his hands gently in hers. “Know that the parent is responsible for the child, and not the child its parent. For you to have the capacity for mature love, your heart must first be emptied of its callow burdens.”
A bell in the compartment sounded and a crewman's voice announced takeoff in twenty minutes. Interrupted, the Messiah dropped her thoughtful gaze and the hands of her flustered companion.
Badly shaken, Feldman hurriedly excused himself and returned unsteadily to his cabin. Inside, he shut the door and leaned against it, breathing heavily.
He simply did not know what to make of this strange woman. There was a great warmth, a feeling of powerful humanity that issued from her, drawing him irresistibly to her. And yet, this messianic power that she wielded, this spell that she cast over people, it troubled him deeply. He could not understand or reconcile the contradictory attraction and anxiety her extraordinary abilities summoned within him.
75
Palace of the Sanctum Officium, Vatican City, Rome, Italy 11:51 A.M., Tuesday, March 7, 2000
The Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, with the pope himself presiding, had been in an uproar all morning. Although heated arguments had often wandered far afield from the main topic—the proposed Jeza visit—on that particular issue, the Congregation appeared irreconcilably divided.
A learned, elderly cardinal from Latvia argued passionately, “A meeting with this fanatical mystic is unthinkable! Impossible! It becomes a confrontation of supremacy, pitting our Hol
y Father against this parvenue charlatan in a public opinion contest over who has the greater divine authority. It is degrading.”
A stalwart Franciscan cardinal stood to offer his concurrence. “Consider the implications: simply allowing the woman to come here serves to legitimize her. We must not sanctify her fear mongering, nor should we reduce the sacred Basilica of Saint Peter to the level of a Mormon Tabernacle.”
Another cardinal, a Jesuit from Malaysia, embraced the entire assembly with a gesture of his arms. “This misguided, self-proclaimed Messiah is anathema to Holy Mother Church and to all organized religion. Look at the calamity she has brought upon us. All over the world, our dioceses are in shambles. Our support and contributions evaporating. Our congregations deserting us. I implore you, Holy Father,” a tone of urgency entering his voice, “do not subject yourself to this humiliation.”
“It's precisely because of the disaster we face that the Holy Father must hold audience with this Jeza,” asserted a young cardinal from the Roman diocese. “Just as we are divided here in our own Curia over this issue, so, too, are the lost sheep of our congregations. This is our opportunity to assume a more assertive role. We must be seen as the unshakable standard-bearers around which the remaining faithful may rally.”
Another young cardinal rose in support. “I wholeheartedly agree. I cannot abide some of the recommendations that I've heard here today. I cannot accept that our best course of action is to simply stand idly by, trusting that the passage of time alone will be sufficient to expose this false prophecy.