The wind made a keening sound; it was fitful on this full moon’s night. A hunter’s moon, Jesse had always called it, when the moon was larger than it was supposed to be, thrice a year, a special gift to the hungry ones so they could find and kill their food more easily. It was an oddly predatory fairy tale. But Noe reflected, bathed in its eerie light, that the story made sense for this, the earth that was the Lord’s, and all the beasts therein. It wouldn’t fit in Eden, but here, now, in this time, it was the way He had ordered it.
“It’s giving the wolves a good hunt tonight,” Noemi said quietly.
“The wolves and the foxes and all of the fiercest beasts, the Lord has provided for them, too,” Jesse replied. “But some of these wolves, now . . .”
With clear reluctance he dropped his eyes from the heavens to the troubled earth below. “They’ll be here tomorrow, maybe the next day,” he said in a low voice. “If they can stand fast, and make it through.”
“We’ll pray them through, Jess,” Noemi said confidently. “God is on His throne, and His paths for us are set. All those poor wanderers have to do is stay on His path. They’ll make it through devil-wolves or no.”
“I know you are right, Noe, ‘course I do, but sometimes it’s hard to live with miracles,” Jesse said dryly. “Kinda hard to get used to, isn’t it? We’re just dust, just little bits of dust, and it’d kill us dead if we saw more than the tiniest glimpse of God’s back as He passes. It’s almost beyond our ken that we’re here safe, and those poor people are coming on through the darkness, even though we haven’t been able to light the signal for them.” Jesse was still too weak to gather firewood, but God had shown him that the refugees—some of them anyway—were coming on. Jess knew, too, that one of them had died, though he hadn’t mentioned this to Noemi. Sometimes God told him things he had to keep to himself.
Another star flamed, burned brightly in its death throes, and then was lost forever. Noe asked calmly, “Jesse, do you think this is the end of the world?”
No immediate answer was forthcoming. The old man stood there and Noemi knew that he was listening more to the whisperings deep inside his spirit than to the moanings of the wind that lay heavy on Blue Mountain.
After what seemed a long time, Jess spoke. His words did not seem to have anything to do with the question. Nevertheless Noe listened closely.
“I remember my grandpa telling me about World War II. People now—kind of arrogantly, I’ve always thought—call it the Last Great War. He was at Normandy, you know. The big D-Day invasion.”
Noe said nothing but, of course, she knew the history of Jesse’s great-great-grandfather very well, for his exploits were one reason her beloved grandson David had joined the army, and fought to get accepted into his elite division. Kaleb Mitchell had been in the 101st Airborne assault on Utah Beach. He had been one of the few who survived that bloody day, and one of even fewer who outlived the war.
Jesse’s voice went on, not strong as it had been in his youth but still clear and commanding. “When Hitler conquered Europe it looked like he was going to conquer the whole world. Those must have been terrible days, dark days of fear. Grandpa Kaleb said Christians then were sure they must have been living in the last days. Preachers were preaching about it from every pulpit. Prophets were jumping up all over the place proclaiming that the last and greatest evil had come, and soon Jesus must return. I guess it did seem like the end of the world to Christians at that time.”
Noemi nodded thoughtfully.
“I don’t read much poetry but there was one poet—forget his name—who said something like, ‘Why do we talk about bad times coming as if there were ever anything but bad times?’ Don’t guess that fellow knew the Bible, but the Scripture says: Man that is born of a woman is of few days, and full of trouble. I guess that the people who died in concentration camps thought the end times had come. And it had. For them.”
“But this—now—is something different, isn’t it?” Noe asked hesitantly.
Jesse sighed. “I don’t know, Noe, I really don’t. And we can’t know. Not even the Son knows that hour. One thing I have learned in my long life is that we’re so self-centered, we always think we’re the very center of the universe. If the end of our world comes, then we think it’s the end of everything.”
Noemi considered this carefully, as she did everything her husband said. But she was tired, and it seemed as if the future was too huge, too dangerously complicated, to look ahead and try to plan.
She was suddenly aware of how cold her hands and feet and face were. The pain in her hands was dull now, but she knew that with the chill would come a price to be paid.
Suddenly, Jesse turned to her and took her hands in his. Immediately, tangibly, Noe felt warmth flowing into her, and with warmth comes strength. Noe had seen the sick healed instantly when Jesse touched them. But the source of the strength, Noemi Mitchell knew, did not come from the physical body of the small man who stood beside her. She saw that Jesse was staring blindly, his eyes wide but unseeing, over the dim depths of the valley stretched out below them. “What do you see, Jesse?”
“I can’t see much of anything in this darkness that’s come upon us.” His grip tightened. His grip hurt her, but Noemi gave no sign. “But sometimes you don’t need to see to recognize someone . . . I don’t know if these are the last times or not. I do know that there’s an evil loosed . . . He’s out there, he’s—close, and he’s coming on . . .”
Noemi swallowed hard. “ Jess. . . who? Who is—”
Abruptly, Jesse relaxed, and shrugged. “You know who. He’s always the same old devil, but he takes different tacks and names and faces and ways, but he’s always the same. That’s why I don’t have to see him. I recognize him, for I’ve seen him too many times before. But I know there are two things that we can do. The two things that God’s people can always do.”
“Yes. . . with the Lord. . .”
“We can fight—and we can win!” Now he smiled, already in triumph.
But Noemi Mitchell, though she was a woman of strong faith and will, had fears and weaknesses and doubts that it seemed her husband did not share. Her eyes fell, and she gently rubbed her knuckles. “Fight . . . maybe a war?”
Jesse replied with a touch of sadness. “I know, Noe. David. But it’s his path, you know that. And there’ll be others who have to follow that hard way.”
He fell again into that stillness that sometimes came to him and turned his head as if listening. Finally he said in a voice strong and sure, “Here’s what I see, Noe, because I choose to look at Him instead of the enemy: They overcame him by the blood of the Lamb, and by the word of their testimony—” He broke off suddenly and watched her, waiting.
Noe finished the quotation, for she knew it well “. . . and they loved not their lives unto the death.”
“Even so,” Jesse Mitchell cried exultantly, “come Lord Jesus!”
And as He sat upon the mount of Olives, the disciples came unto him privately, saying, Tell us, when shall these things be?and what shall be the sign of thy coming, and of the end of the world?
And Jesus answered and said unto them, Take heed that no man deceive you. For many shall come in my name, saying, I am Christ; and shall deceive many.
And ye shall hear of wars and rumours of wars: see that ye be not troubled: for all these things must come to pass, but the end is not yet.
For nation shall rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom: and there shall be famines, and pestilences, and earthquakes, in divers places.
All these are the beginning of sorrows.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Dr. Gilbert Morris is a retired English professor from a Baptist college in Arkansas. His first novel was published in 1984. Since then, he has become one of the most popular fiction writers in Christian publishing. He is the author of over 80 novels, many of them best-sellers. Some of his most popular series include: The House of Winslow, Appomattox Saga, and The Wakefield Dynasty. His daughter Lynn and
son Alan have co-authored many books with him.
Lynn Morris has a background in accounting. She worked as a private accountant for twenty years before she began collaborating with her father on the series, Cheney Duvall, M.D. This series has sold nearly half a million copies in five years.
After a working in the armed forces and the U.S. Postal services, Alan Morris began co-authoring books with his father. Their historical series, The Katy Steele Adventures, launched Alan’s highly successful writing career. He is the author of The Guardians of the North Series, and is currently collaborating with best-selling author Robert Wise on a new series.
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