Prophet

by Frank Peretti

  “May I tell you what really happened out there?” Dad asked.

  “I saw what happened.”

  Dad hesitated at that statement, thought for a moment, then said, “Well . . . let me tell you what really happened.”

  “All right, tell me. I’m listening.”

  Dad leaned back in his chair and dabbed his eyes with his handkerchief. “Son . . . I didn’t go to that rally because I’ve got something personal against Hiram Slater. I’m not his enemy. I was only giving him the warnings God laid on my heart. I just had to tell him.” He gave it just a little more thought and then admitted, “If I did anything wrong, it was talking in generalities. Maybe I should have been more specific.”

  John couldn’t believe this. “Dad, you shouldn’t have been up there talking at all! Can’t I get that through to you?”

  “But how else can I warn him?”

  “Did you ever think of writing him a letter?”

  “I did that. I never got anything back but a form letter that tells me he hasn’t read a word I’ve said. I’m hurting for him, son. That is one tortured man. He’s so far into the dark he’s tripping over his own lies, and now he’s deceiving others. There’s a lot of pain out there right now, and there’ll be more, and he’s going to be held accountable for a good portion of it.”

  John knew arguing with that would be pointless. “Okay. Fine. But what about that fight?”

  “The fight . . . I don’t know what that was all about. I don’t get into fights, and you know that. I was standing there trying to be heard . . . I guess that crowd didn’t care much to listen . . . And then two guys, two strangers, jumped into that crowd and started beating on people, just stirring things up, cussing people out, calling them baby killers, things like that. But, son, I don’t know who they were. I’ve never seen them at any pro-life events, and they were never at the Women’s Medical Center when we’d go there to sidewalk counsel. But anyway, that crowd was already hot enough, and when those two guys started hitting people, boy, a lot of anger broke loose.”

  “And you don’t think you’re to blame for that?”

  “Not for the fight.” A look of resignation came across his face. “But I guess I did rile those folks a bit. I didn’t mean to, but I did.” John remained quiet, so Dad continued, “Things went wrong, son. I just wanted to say what needed to be said and hopefully be heard by someone out there, but all of a sudden here I was in the middle of a big fight, and I never asked for that. And I remember being up on that planter, trying to calm people down, and I was shaking I was so scared, and then—I don’t know where they came from, but these three big guys grabbed me and pulled me down and started muscling me out of there, and then . . .” He smiled sheepishly. “You see, I’ve got this friend named Max. He’s a big guy, a shipyard worker. We met outside the Women’s Medical Center one Friday back in July, and we’ve been close ever since. Max’ll do anything for me. The problem is, he still thinks brute force is the answer to everything, and I keep telling him he has to get over that.”

  “I did see him brawling.”

  Dad nodded sadly. “He was trying to protect me. But that just got us in more trouble when the police came. They dragged us out of there like common thugs, and it’s a good thing Max finally controlled himself or we both would have ended up in the pokey.”

  John grimaced and took a moment to respond. He had to hold back his anger at the sheer idiocy of it all. “Dad, I hope you can see the foolishness of all this. At least admit that your actions were not cost effective, okay? For all the trouble you caused yourself and everyone else, the returns were very poor.”

  “Well . . . I said what I had to say.”

  John pounded the chair arm in anger and cursed. “They used you, Dad! Don’t you see that? That whole Hiram Slater bunch used you, and you helped him by what you did. You made it look like the only people who would oppose him are narrow-minded, fanatical, loudmouthed kooks! Kooks and brawlers, and . . . and . . .” He stopped. He hadn’t come here to insult anyone. “Now I’m not saying you’re any of those things. But you don’t understand the game, Dad. You’re up against the big leaguers out there, and I don’t think you realize the power of television.”

  Dad shook his head. “I didn’t mean to be on television. My words were for the people who were there, for the governor . . .”

  John leaned forward and gestured in Dad’s face. “Dad, you were there, you were happening, you were visually interesting. Television viewers want something to look at, something to watch. Producers are looking for what the viewers want, and, well, you were it. You asked for it, you got it. You drew those cameras, Dad. And Slater took advantage of the whole thing—you hollering, the fight, everything. That’s because he knows television. You don’t.”

  Dad thought it over and then nodded. He understood. “Yeah, you’re right.”

  “Well, I’m going to need more satisfaction than that, Dad. I want to know for sure—I want to hear it from your lips that you’re going to stop this public preaching-and-prophesying stuff. It isn’t working. It’s making a fool of you, a fool of me, and it’s only helping your enemies. Do you see that?”

  Dad rested back in his chair and looked at the wall, pondering the whole thing, his eyes full of pain. “It’s hard, son, to have God show you things and tell you things and then not know what to do with what you’ve been given.”

  John sighed. This was one of those little quirks of Dad’s—subjective experience. How do you reason with someone who’s been hearing from God? “Well, Dad, there are proper avenues . . .”

  Dad didn’t seem to hear him, but continued speaking in quiet tones, his eyes full of sorrow. “ ‘Eat the scroll, John.’ That’s what the Lord said. ‘In your mouth it will taste sweet, but it will make your stomach bitter.’ And He was right. Up front when you hear things and see things and God entrusts you with knowing things, you think of how privileged you are, how wonderful it is to see Truth parading right in front of you. And then . . . when you try to speak it and nobody listens . . . and you see people heading for a cliff and you just can’t turn them back . . . and when you find out things you would have been happier not knowing . . . and when you hear the cries of lost souls . . .”

  Dad’s eyes filled with tears. He dabbed his eyes again and looked at his son. “I could hear them last night, son. I could hear them as plain and clear as I can hear you now. All over the city. Souls without God, lost and dying and crying for help.” His voice broke and he struggled to continue. “Oh, on the outside they laugh and they mock and they sneer and they try to look good to all their friends and keep right on having a good time, keep right on accumulating things and being entertained because it’s the only way to get away from the pain. But I can hear them crying. I can see them drifting further and further from the light, just like they’re walking into shadows, into darkness, never to come back.” He drew a breath and then spoke out of anger and frustration. “But who can I tell? Who’s going to listen to me?”

  John heard what his father was saying, and yet, with a willful stubbornness, with a determined denial, he would not accept it. No way. I’m not going to be a part of this, he told himself. If Dad’s got a screw loose, it’s not going to happen to me.

  “You won’t listen,” Dad said—not accusingly, just sadly. Truthfully. “And you know something? One of those crying voices was the voice of Governor Hiram Slater.”

  Well, it makes sense, John thought. We’re genetically similar, we’ve both been under stress. I get the same allergies he does too.

  “Funny that we could be so much the same and so different, isn’t it?” Dad said, allowing himself to chuckle, even through his tears. “You know, son, you and I were having this same conversation some twenty years ago, except you were sitting in my place and I was sitting in yours. What was it you were doing at the university? Taking over the Administration Building for three days until the cops finally broke in and hauled you and all your fellow saviors of the world out of there?”
>
  John smiled ruefully. “Yeah, I remember that.”

  Dad shook his head. “I was so frustrated with you . . . and embarrassed.”

  That’s one for you, Dad. “Guess the shoe’s on the other foot now, huh?”

  “Yeah, son, I guess it is.”

  “So there you go. You’ve been through it with me. You know how it feels.”

  Dad nodded a strong nod. “I know.” Then he smiled. “And I guess it gives me a ray of hope, knowing we’re so much alike.”

  No, Dad, we’re not alike, John thought.

  “It’s just so sad that you and I can’t be devoted to the same things, that we can’t see eye to eye. It would be so wonderful to be able to tell you things and talk about things, I mean, just open up and lay it all on the table and both look at it and come to the same conclusion. Son . . . I can remember when it used to be that way, and I think it can be that way again.”

  No, Dad, that’s not likely. John stole a glance at the clock on the wall. He had to be at the station by 1.

  Suddenly, with a new resolve, Dad turned to face his son head-on, leaned over the desk, and spoke so directly that John cringed. “Well, son, all right, you’ve had your say. So now I’ll have mine, and don’t worry, I’ll be finished in time for you to get to work.

  “You know what? I’ve got plenty of things I’d love to share with you right now. Right now. I’ve got things I’ve learned today, just this morning, that I’m busting to share with you . . .” His hand went to the desk drawer where he’d stowed the cassette player, but then he drew it back, having second thoughts. “But I can’t. I can’t because so far, son, you and the Truth have a real problem with each other.”

  “Now, Dad . . .”

  The elder Barrett waved him off. “No, no, now you listen. It’s my turn, so you just listen. One of these days, son, I’m going to give you what I have, every bit of it, but not until you’re ready to receive it. Right now I’m over a barrel. I’m not politically correct, I don’t have anyone to appear on camera, and I can’t squeeze it into a minute and a half.”

  Maybe he does know television, John thought.

  “No, but I know you, and you mark my words, son, or at least file them somewhere in your brain until you’re ready to hear them.” Dad stopped so he could slow down. “Son, the days ahead are going to be difficult for you. I want you to know that ahead of time. The Truth is coming after you, son, and it’s going to sink its claws into you and not let go until you start paying attention. There’s something you need to keep in mind about the Truth, John. Depending on where you stand, the Truth can be your best friend or your worst enemy. So let me tell you something. I mean, if I never get the chance to say anything else to you, at least let me say this: Make friends with the Truth, John, as quickly as you can.” Dad looked at the clock. “All right, I did that in just a minute and a half.”

  Dad sat back in his chair, finished.

  John assumed he had the floor again. “Okay, Dad. Message received and filed. But now, how did I do? Did my message get through?”

  Dad answered quietly and firmly, “Son, I heard you. And I’ll give the matter serious thought. Just you do the same with what I gave you.”

  Well, John thought. What did I expect? “All right. So long as we understand each other.”

  Dad sighed and looked out the window. “I guess I’ve said all I need to say.”

  John rose from the chair. “Yeah, I’ve got to get going.”

  “Take your sandwich.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “You bring a coat?” Dad was looking out the window, and it was raining hard.

  “Oh, brother. Well, I’ll make a dash for it.” Dad went to the coatrack and grabbed his old overcoat.

  “Here. The weather’s changing. You’re going to need this.”

  “No, come on, I don’t need—”

  Dad shoved the coat at him. “Go on, take it. Humor your religious old man.”

  John resigned himself to wearing the coat and slipped it on over his suit. “Don’t know if it’ll fit me.”

  “You’ll grow into it.”

  “Well, thanks. I’ll get it back to you.”

  “No, it’s yours now. You keep it.”

  John was about to protest again, but there just wasn’t time for more discussion. “I love you, Dad.”

  “I love you too, son.”

  It was close to 1 o’clock. John rushed out of there.

  AUDIO: LOW, RUMBLING music, rising in intensity. Video: The sun just on the horizon, burning a window of fire through the dusty red haze of dawn.

  Low voice, heavy on the glottal flutter: “A new day, a new dawning, broke upon our state four years ago. Now that rising sun is approaching its zenith, and we, the people, have the power to keep it there.”

  Cut to head and shoulders of Governor Hiram Slater just turning his face toward the camera. Coat off, tie loosened, his face earnest, full of business.

  Voice: “Governor Hiram Slater, a pioneer who will not be turned back, is working for you!”

  Quick-cutting, rapid-fire shots of Hiram Slater, shirtsleeves rolled up, brow furrowed, shuffling papers, consulting with VIPs, talking on the phone.

  Voice: “A growing economy and new jobs. A bold new approach to education for the twentieth century. Environmental awareness. These are the Slater legacy.”

  Shot of the state capitol dome silhouetted against a massive rising sun, the whole picture rippling with heat waves.

  Voice: “The new dawn lives on.” Hiram Slater’s face appears to the left of the capitol dome in stark relief against the sun.

  Voice: “Governor Hiram Slater—for Governor!”

  Small title across bottom of screen: “Paid for by the Committee to Reelect Governor Slater, Wilma Benthoff, Chairperson.”

  THE GOVERNOR, MARTIN Devin, and Wilma Benthoff were seated at one end of a massive conference table, watching the towering, powerful images assaulting their senses from a deluxe, 50-inch television screen in the corner of the room. Wilma Benthoff, the harried organizer from the rally, was looking much better today, decked out in a tailored black suit, her spine straight, her billowing, blonde curls perfectly behaved. All three sat in calm, objective, critical-eyed judgment on the presentation as Rowen and Hartly, their hired media consultants, unveiled the television spots that would persuade the populace to keep Slater in office.

  WAVES PLAYFULLY LAPPING against the round stones and mussel shells. The cry of sea gulls. Seals on a rock, barking, sleeping, clapping. Killer whales sporting and spouting. A blue heron skimming just above the water in slow motion. Windswept, outdoorsy music.

  Voice: “The Bay, for millennia a showcase of nature, a playground for sea life. A precious treasure.”

  Shots of black oil swirling around the rocks, dying birds, limping otters. The music becomes dark and ominous.

  “Governor Hiram Slater has determined that what has happened elsewhere will not happen here.”

  Shot of The Bay. Blue water, blue sky. Hiram Slater’s face appears superimposed over the scene, the guardian of these placid waters.

  “Two years ago Governor Slater presented—and saw passed—a law requiring double hulls and backup containment systems on tankers operating in The Bay . . .”

  A tanker appears on The Bay as Hiram Slater’s superimposed image keeps a watchful eye on it.

  “. . . the first law of its kind to protect our precious environment.”

  Shot of Hiram Slater, in shirtsleeves again, standing on a wharf with The Bay in the background, addressing a group of people, all with their backs to the camera.

  Slater: “This is not only our world, but our children’s world. What we have here is a precious legacy, and what I inherited I intend to pass on in even better condition than when I found it.”

  Several people nod in agreement. Shot of mountain streams, jumping salmon, soaring eagles.

  Voice: “Your world. Your children’s world. Your governor, Hiram Slater!”

 
Title: “Paid for by the Committee to Reelect Governor Slater, Wilma Benthoff, Chairperson.”

  MORE ADS FOLLOWED, with more images moving quickly, jump-cutting from one to another.

  Scene: The governor in close-up on grainy film stock, in jerky stop-motion. Hardworking. Gritty. Determined.

  Governor’s voice over the pictures: “Fiscal responsibility is still one of my goals for the state. I’m happy to say that last year we realized our first budget surplus, and if I can help it we’re going to see another one this year, and the next, and the next.”

  Scene: Women cheering, waving KEEP ABORTION LEGAL signs. In the center, Governor Hiram Slater, greeting them, shaking their hands. Cut to:

  Governor addresses a gathering of women: “I once dreamed of a state where reproductive freedom was a fundamental right of every woman. We have seen that dream come true, and as long as I am governor that dream will live on!”

  Cheers. Some tears.

  Scene: The classroom. Teachers dashing ABCs and famous names onto blackboards. Kids listening attentively, hard at work. Hiram Slater in the middle of it, talking to the children, addressing the class, taking questions, laughing.

  Slater addressing a group of teachers: “History has carried our world forward, but our schools have lagged behind. I say it’s time not to catch up with history but to outrun it. We must live, and we must educate, as if the future were today.”

  The teachers nod, exchange positive looks.

  THE ADS TUMBLED colorfully out of the television screen, the music rising, the sun continuing to shine. From every angle, at every film speed, in backlight, sidelight, stark light, faces, faces, faces, happy, hopeful, adoring, prospering, a moving montage of political satisfaction.

  Title: “Paid for by the Committee to Reelect Governor Slater, Wilma Benthoff, Chairperson.”

  THE SCREEN WENT black. Slater, Devin, and Benthoff exchanged pleased expressions and applauded.

  “Bravo!” said the governor.

  “Good enough, good enough,” said Benthoff.