In the frenetic joy of the worshippers, he found a fascination that he could not explain, and that he could not seem to satisfy. He decided to invest much of his accumulated wealth in projecting the images and sounds from around the throne into his own living room. Because he could not explain his obsession, and did not fully grasp the meaning of what was happening in Jerusalem, he avoided answering questions from his neighbors. He simply had to see more, and hear more, of that grand, endless celebration.
When he discovered the complex sounds created by the immortals around the throne and saw the schematically intense choreography of their mass dancing, he began to turn up the volume on his fifteen-speaker sound system, until the house vibrated; wood, glass and brick resonating with the heavenly music.
When Dale came home from work late one night, he noticed the flashing 3D images through a gap in Troy’s curtains and heard the soul-seizing sound of the music. He overcame his own natural introversion and knocked on the door. Troy refused to answer for several minutes, but Dale couldn’t pull himself away and kept knocking. Only when one of the 3D images on the video turned and looked directly at Troy, and then pointed to his front door, did he yield to his neighbor.
For a moment, Dale simply stood in the doorway, absorbing the sights and sounds, immersed in the Jerusalem experience more than ever before. Only briefly did he marvel at the magnificent multimedia system’s capabilities, before the music and the flying dances of the worshippers caught him up. Without speaking a word to each other, Troy and Dale sat down in the living room and watched the worship.
Unlike Troy, Dale managed to pull himself away, to get some sleep and to go to his store, though he began gradually to assemble a better multimedia system there, in order to see and hear more of the scene around the throne. His setup could not rival Troy’s, and several levels of sound remained hidden from his media experience in the shop, drawing him back to Troy’s house.
Soon, Dale found that he could just come and go from Troy’s house, and Troy would barely acknowledge his presence, even when Dale brought him food and drink. Dale suspected that Troy might die of starvation, or dehydration, there on his couch, so deeply buried in his obsession.
Eventually, Dale spread the word, though mostly unintentionally, and others began to join Troy in his living room, at various times during the day. Daniel and Tina would go after school, with a few other students who lived in Troy’s neighborhood. Though Daniel and Tina both found the music and dance fascinating, they were both distracted by the smell in Troy’s house. They took it on themselves to clean up as much as they could, without disrupting their mute host.
Beyond these practical concerns, Daniel did allow the images and sounds to captivate his heart, each time he visited Troy’s house. He also spent more time watching Jerusalem on his computer, though it lacked the sense of virtual presence he experienced at Troy’s place. Then, just before Christmas, Daniel heard that a group of people had pooled their money and purchased an even more advanced multimedia system, installing it in the movie theater, which new owners had partially restored and advertised for rent.
Daniel and Tina visited a showing two days before Christmas. Forty people sat in scattered theater seats that the new tenants had bolted back onto the floor, in groups of two, three and four. A few of the viewers stood in the empty concrete gaps between seats, hands folded or even raised above their heads, lost in the sounds and images of worship around the throne.
To the young couple, this felt uncomfortable, too religious, even more strange to them than Troy. They decided they would visit his house the next time they wanted to watch the festivities. When Daniel knocked next on Troy’s door, he was alone, Tina being out with her mother. Walking in after knocking, as he had done before, Daniel stopped suddenly in the entryway. No one beside Troy seemed to be there, though the 3D images leaping out of the projection system always made it difficult to count the number of actual people in the room.
“Hi, Daniel,” said Troy, standing up from the couch and walking over to greet his guest.
If he had never seen Troy before, Daniel would not have considered this welcome either particularly friendly or demonstrative, but, given his experience, this display struck Daniel speechless for a few seconds.
When he recovered, Daniel said, “Uh, hi. How are you Troy?” He tried to sound nonchalant.
“I’m actually feeling much better, better than I have for a long time,” Troy said, nodding.
Troy’s long dark hair, parted in the middle and falling naturally to shoulder length, looked more clean and combed than Daniel had seen before and the house seemed cleaner and more orderly. For the first time, Daniel looked Troy square in the face. His large dark eyes, and mouth slightly agape, impressed Daniel as childlike, but his skin still bore the scars and wrinkles of the premature aging that homeless people suffer.
“Did you try watching at the theater?” Troy asked, in his deadpan voice.
“Yeah, Tina and I went this weekend. It’s not the same.”
Troy turned back to the couch, but looked at Daniel when he sat down, instead of zoning out in front of the video. “They come to me at night, when I’m alone sometimes,” he said simply.
Daniel stared at Troy, then diverted his gaze to a pair of young girls twirling and leaping across the screen, followed by a man in his forties leaping upward, his whole body leaving the frame of the picture.
“They come here?” Daniel wasn’t sure what Troy meant.
“Sometimes.”
Sensing the sincerity of Troy’s statement, Daniel asked, “What do they do when they’re here?”
Troy tilted his head a bit, glanced at Daniel, and said in a more subdued voice, “Sometimes, they sing me to sleep.”
As if on cue, the volume of the song increased over the speaker system and Daniel distracted his attention away from Troy for a moment, taking the opportunity to decide whether he believed the strange reclusive man. Given what he had seen of the immortals, it certainly was possible that some of them visited Troy. The change in Troy’s behavior certainly added credibility to his story.
Daniel looked back at Troy and asked, “Did they explain why they’re coming to visit you?”
“I don’t think they ever explained it, really, but I always knew they were here to heal my brain, as if their songs could reprogram my dysfunctional mind,” he said, still speaking in an even and matter-of-fact tone.
Daniel smiled at Troy. “That’s so cool.”
For the first time, Troy smiled at Daniel.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The residents of Somerville spoke of that winter in quotes, or as “so-called winter,” and they did so with a smile. Since the global warming, which had begun to level off a decade before the war, Midwesterners had grown accustomed to mild winters, which saw more rain than snow. The winter that began Year Two of the Reign, included very little freezing weather and snow only twice, a total of two inches, as if they received a mere sampler of winter, for old time sake.
January brought national elections, which included nearly fifteen million voters; reportedly, three quarters of the eligible population. To begin the political reconstruction as soon as possible, the newly-elected leaders would take office on the first day of February, just a few weeks after the election.
On January 10, Rodney received a phone call from Baxter Slatery.
“Hey old man, how ya doin’?” Baxter said, over a clear mobile connection.
“I’m doing well, my friend, it’s good to hear from you,” Rodney said, sitting down on the stairs of the old farmhouse he had been remodeling, with Ben Jackson and two other laborers. Knowing this was likely not a casual call, he asked, “So what are you up to?”
“Well, the President-elect has asked me to stay on as Secretary of Defense,” he said, with a bit of excitement in his voice.
“Wow and you sound happy about it. Congratulations. That makes me more sure that I voted for the right person,” said Rodney.
“Tha
nks.” Baxter chuckled. “I know I’m still military, ‘cause I didn’t even consider saying ‘no thanks.’ But this isn’t gonna be so much military as diplomatic, and maybe national police, at the most. That’s a job I feel good about. And the first thing I get to do, even before Marian Walsh takes the oath of office, is take a trip to Jerusalem.”
Rodney gave a short gasp. “Oh, man, you lucky dog. That really is a job you can feel good about.”
“Yeah, and I get to take a small delegation with me. So, you wanna go?”
Rodney sat in silence for two seconds. “You serious? Of course, I wanta go. I’ll talk to Emma about it, as soon as possible. How long you going for and when do you need an answer?”
“I need to know before I go to bed tonight. We leave from Pittsburgh day after tomorrow, for two days flying, one each way, and two days there.”
“Yeah, followed by twelve days of jet lag,” Rodney said. “Okay, I’ll call you this evening. Is this number good?”
“Yep, call me on this number before nine, your time,” Baxter said.
“Will do. Thanks man, what a great opportunity,” Rodney said.
“You’re welcome,” said Baxter. “I’d love to have you with me over there.”
They concluded with warm goodbyes and greetings to each other’s family members that they had not yet met.
Rodney finished up a couple of items, told Ben he was leaving early and headed for home.
“Oh, my! Of course, you have to go,” Emma said, when she heard. “What a great chance to finally see him for yourself.” Her eyes danced and her smile blessed his journey.
With speed that reminded him of life before the war, Rodney arranged his flight to Pittsburgh, packed and said his goodbyes. He had flown to the Middle East before, in what seemed like a completely different life, as a young man moved by that great conveyor belt called the U.S. military. Older now, and with a completely new focus, this trip would be nothing like the anonymous vacuum, sucking him from plane to plane, airport to airport, a face among hundreds, a number, barely a name.
When the flight took off from Pittsburgh, Rodney sat across the aisle from Baxter, who sat next to his wife and his assistant, an intense young man with jet-black hair slicked back. To Rodney’s right, sat a stout woman of sixty years, or so, with short, gray hair and powdered cheeks. Her name was Elaine. She was not part of Baxter’s entourage, but a tourist from Ohio, travelling to Jerusalem with a group of women who were all alumnae of a small college in New York. Rodney marveled at the fact that even a handful of these former dorm mates had survived the war, and the disasters that rained all around that conflagration.
When she found out that Rodney was headed for Israel, Elaine asked, “What are you going to do in Jerusalem.”
“We’re part of a government delegation, going to meet with the King and his people,” Rodney said, not sure how to make it seem less intimidating than it felt to him.
Elaine turned in her seat and looked at him. “Government? What government?”
“The United American Republic,” Rodney said, feeling awkward saying the name of the newly formed state.
“Oh,” said Elaine. “Are you somebody I should know?”
Rodney laughed. “No, not me.” He pointed with his left thumb, “but this is the Secretary of Defense.”
He thought Elaine was going to levitate out of her seat, she turned her stout torso so forcefully, craning her short neck to look at Baxter. She snapped her head to the right and said something to her friend on the other side and then craned her neck again to get another look at Baxter, this time accompanied by a woman with artificially dark hair and painted on eyebrows.
Picturing these ladies in Jerusalem nearly provoked Rodney to burst into laughter. Eventually the women grew tired of twisting in their seats to get a look at the new Secretary of Defense and, before long, all Rodney heard from them was snoring.
Approaching London around sunset, Rodney looked past Baxter, out the window, toward the demolished city. The passengers all watched in silence, the once great city passing below them, clothed in gray rubble and ashes. Changing planes at a former military airfield fifty miles from London, they flew on to Tel Aviv, where the airport had been restored a year before.
Most of the passengers slept on the flight from England, even sleeping through a stopover in Italy. When they arrived in Israel the next morning, they were able to clean up and change clothes in their Tel Aviv hotel.
From Tel Aviv, they rode in a small bus, driven by one of the immortals, a jolly little man with bright green eyes, who spoke seven different languages that Rodney could discern. Along with the six people in Baxter’s entourage, four from Mexico and seven from Brazil also advanced toward the royal city, representing their local or national governments.
Ten miles from the center of Jerusalem, they began to see dancers and singers, transcendent voices blending into a symphonic sound that Rodney recognized from the Internet, the way one recognizes the Grand Canyon from a post card. Staring as they drove past a mass of thousands of these supernatural singers, Rodney noticed the walls behind the singers. At first glance, he thought they were covered with elaborate graffiti, but closer attention revealed a depth of color and detail that stunned him. The song of the worshippers accompanied him, as he allowed the world portrayed in those murals to invite him in.
Rodney got a clear look at a wall that depicted a city made of gold, streets pure and glowing, upon which ran—and over which flew—gorgeous people of all colors, all hurtling in the same direction. At the end of that wall, stood two small children, one on the shoulders of the other, rubbing something on the wall, producing that exquisite mural with their own hands.
By the time they were within five miles of the city, the driver powered off the electric vehicle, stating in three languages, “This is as far as we go. It’s on foot from here.”
Rodney and Baxter looked at each other, feeling like children at their first day of school, both thrilled and terrified by what they anticipated. A tall woman with waist-length, red hair greeted them on the street, addressing herself primarily to Baxter and Rodney.
“Hello, we have been awaiting your arrival. I trust you are ready for some exercise. We will be ushering you through the worshippers toward the throne.” Two young men, who appeared no more than eighteen years old, stepped up next to the woman.
“My name is Rebecca,” she said.
Baxter and Rodney shook her hand and bowed, feeling that they were inventing protocol for such a meeting out of the clear air.
“We are, of course, greatly honored to be allowed even this close to the throne,” Baxter said, with grace and intensity. Loretta, his wife, clung to his arm and seemed to be fighting an urge to turn and run. Rebecca stroked Loretta’s shoulder to give her strength and encouragement.
When Rebecca turned and led the way into the dense crowd of dancers, Rodney first noticed how she moved the worshippers ahead of them, clearing the way with gentle touches that sent the worshippers twirling and drifting out of the way. He also noticed that every step he took felt as if elastic bands had been attached to the backs of his feet, pulling back as he pushed forward. One glance at Baxter told him that his friend felt that same resistance. The two young men behind them seemed well-placed to help them push forward, but Rodney wondered at how they overcame the gravity that harassed him.
Hiking past millions of dancing and singing worshippers caused vertigo in some of the mortals, at first, until their brains acclimated to the constant, rapid motion all around them, in contrast to their own slow slog forward. At their current pace, Rodney estimated that reaching the throne would take more than five hours, and that it would be nearly dark by the time they arrived at their destination.
At several points along their walk, Rodney could see more closely the artists working to cover all of the buildings with amazing depictions of Heaven. Passing close enough to see more precisely what they were doing, he discovered that they were using pieces of colored glass
and metal, fusing them to the brick and stone of the walls and sidewalks. The glistening result would be permanent, in mortal terms. If the King were not on his throne, these unprecedented works of art would themselves attract people from all over the world. Rodney thought of the group of women tourists on the plane, realizing that they would find their trip worth it if only they could study some of the awe-inspiring murals.
Three hours into the walk, Rodney could tell that they had slowed down, as all of the mortals struggled to continue pushing forward. Rebecca, and the rest of their escort, kept encouraging them verbally and looking at each other, to assess what to do with the fragile mortals.
Still miles from the throne, their escort decided that they should stop to eat in a roadside café. All of the cooks and wait staff at the little restaurant were immortals and they seemed to rotate into their food service duties out of the whirl of dance and song. Their waitress pocketed several shiny pieces when she landed near their table and took over the role of collecting their food orders. Rodney assumed she was one of the mural artists.
After she had taken their orders, Rodney asked, “Where do you get the shiny things you use to make the murals?”
The pretty, young waitress smiled joyfully at the question. “That is part of the beauty of the art,” she said, as she fished the rounded pieces from her apron pocket. “These come from buildings destroyed in the war,” she said holding up two shiny metallic objects. “And these are from weapons that we have destroyed.” She held up two others. “Some use glass from things melted by the volcanoes that killed people around the world.”
“You melt the material in your hands to make them pliable, to stick to the walls and the streets?” Rodney asked.
The REIGN: Out of Tribulation Page 39