Maya places a soothing organic tea called Serene on the table, directly in front of him.
“I’m so sorry,” Maya offers calmly. “I didn’t know that angels can die.” She places one hand over the other, trying hard trying to calm herself.
Zeke’s aborted attempt to laugh fails. “I apologize to both of you. I did not come here for you to feel sorry for me. I’ve lived so long. It is time for me to go. Perhaps I’ve overstayed my welcome in this universe.” Ezekial hands Maya a gift from his bag. “It’s for Molly,” the gentle man says. Maya quickly unravels it. Her mouth opens wide, uttering a tiny but gentle sound.
“Look, Michael; it’s a book.”
“Not just any book,” Zeke says. “I had one of my friends help me with it. His name is Twain—Mark Twain. It’s a book of our travels.”
“Kinda like The Adventures of Tom Sawyer!” I interject.
“Precisely! We had some good times, didn’t we, Michael?”
I nod. “But I think Maya would like to hear a lot more about you and your travels.”
“Yes, that would be so nice, Zeke. Michael and I would love to hear about your life.”
“Can we go for a walk?” Zeke inquires in a tone of voice that is so low that it’s barely audible.
Ezekial, Maya, and I walk through a thick yet yielding underbrush that only we know about. Long strands of vegetation hang chaotically over our path.
“This smells,” Maya asserts. Yet we continue to walk along the stench-laden path until a more open aperture through the leaves appears.
“There’s the lake,” Maya announces softly.
Ezekial proceeds to sit on a tree stump on the side of the bluish silvery lake. He is breathing heavily.
“Are you all right?” I inquire, placing my hands on his shoulders.
“I have a lot to tell you both,” he professes, “but not much time to tell it.”
Maya nods, doing something so unpredictable and touching; she genuflects, slowly moving toward her knees, placing her hands on Ezekial’s cheeks, caressing them softly. “You’ve been traveling for a long time. Tell us where you’ve come from.”
Ezekial inhales deeply, reaching his arms up to the sky as if he is speaking to someone not of Earth. “It started with Jeremiah and me in ancient Israel. God had his work cut out for us; and yes, we both talked to him.”
I glance at Maya, but she is totally absorbed in Ezekial’s words. Zeke’s breathing is forced and labored. I can tell that this isn’t going to be easy.
“We were recently anointed the new messengers of God,” Ezekial says in a shaky, whispered voice. “Jeremiah’s story is well known. It was a time of catastrophe for the people of Israel, and we were the only prophets known in the land. We didn’t agree as to how to proceed. Jeremiah felt that we needed to repent, then flee, and then restore. He claimed that if the people repented, God would restore their temple. Yet God continually told the people not to pray, for it was futile.”
Ezekial rests momentarily, studying our faces. “According to God,” he finally says, “the people had broken the covenant, and my friend Jeremiah was a broken man as well.” He rises and begins pacing anxiously. “I knew I had to do something. I knew that God expected me to do what was right.”
“I see. Go on,” I say.
Ezekial glances up at the sun as if it is God himself helping him in his moment of need. “My friend Jeremiah became everyman—the man who suffered in the eyes of God. I’ve often wondered about Jeremiah, my friend. I kept thinking that in some way our souls would blend together.”
“Perhaps they will,” I affirm softly.
“Perhaps,” Ezekial repeats.
“I felt completely paralyzed at the time; I couldn’t move. I could hardly think. I felt impotent in every way, and I sat there reading scrolls, lingering in my own excrement for four hundred thirty days. It was the most painful time of my existence … yes, in my two thousand nine hundred three years of existence. I saw bloody, vile events. I observed marks on the foreheads of many Israelites, wondering why they were being conspicuously labeled; but, I persevered until that fateful day.” He strolls toward the crystal lake, taking a long drink. “And yes, I became the only transported visionary. I met God and learned about his travails and his struggles to keep this universe alive, and I’ve worked for him ever since.”
I look up into the sky, watching the sun peek out from behind the clouds. Suddenly I felt a sudden cool breeze.
“She’s come for me!” Zeke asserts with a smile. “Every time there’s a nice breeze coming from the north, my sweetheart has come to help me move on.”
Maya and I peer into each other’s eyes, forming our own spiritual bond. “You speak of her as if she’s alive,” Maya gently says.
“She is alive. Aejej is my new wife—my soul mate. Don’t worry; you don’t need to understand now. Just know this: my beautiful companion will come to your aid when you least expect it. There is another force in the universe—an evil force that will evince itself to you shortly. It is up to you to face this force. But first I must tell you about yourself, Michael: who you are, your choices, and perhaps the implications of those choices.”
I glance at Maya. She nods.
Ezekial continues. “You are the one and only singular man who has been allowed to live his life over and correct the wrongs of the past and of all of your descendants, and the atrocities that you have participated in yourself. With the help of God, Copernicus was given your body. You were saved by my brother Bone as he carried you out of the ash heap of destruction, caused by foolish war and man’s desire to destroy. You were put back together again with the hope that you would not make the same mistakes your ancestors made.”
“But I am a mutant, Zeke. I’m made out of another person’s vision of who I should be.”
Zeke shakes his head. “I’m no God, Michael, but I can tell you that’s not true. You’re a man like anyone else. You’ve just been given a tremendous opportunity—the chance to make things right.” He smiles. “But don’t forget people close to you.”
“What do you mean?”
Zeke begins coughing and holds his chest. “Molly … she’s a precious gift. Don’t ever forget that. She’ll help you find your way, Michael.” Zeke’s eyes penetrate me. “I have one more thing to tell you…There’s another man, an evil man I want you to look out for. His name is Eschew… a dangerous, conniving man.”
He then grabs his chest and falls to the ground. The apocalyptic prophet—the man who understood the visions of the secret world—lies on the ground, listless. Yet he has told his story. I feel the presence of a wispy, tender wind caressing my face, playing tag with the colorful leaves hanging from swaying branches. I still need answers.
CHAPTER 52
April 13, 2401
8:16 a.m.
It’s a strange day. I’ve experienced none stranger.
The sun darkens. I see meteors cross the sky. A peculiar fog envelops the heavens like an ominous umbrella drifting aimlessly overhead, absorbing all pain and suffering. A tribute? Perhaps.
A blue moon casts an eerie expression of remorse and mourning in the sky. Hours pass, and the fog lifts, slowly, replaced by a bright yellow sky. Then that too disappears, and a formidable bright sun beams down like a beacon of hope surrounded by three rings of playful rainbow. Ezekial’s words reverberate in my head like mighty notes being struck by the most powerful composers in the world.
Yet the most disturbing event revolves around Molly’s phone. You see, Molly has her own phone. Yes, I know, “kids these days”; but it was what was on the phone that disturbed us.
There is a picture of a woman—and not just any woman. This woman has long black hair, and fingernails like long, sharp talons. There is a smash-jag beneath her picture: “Wouldn’t you be safer with me?”
“It’s Victoria,” I whisper.
&nbs
p; Suddenly I feel sick. I haven’t felt this way since I discovered Maya was gone. I kneel on the ground, forced to my knees by a revulsion that wells up inside of me.
The doorbell rings.
I get off my knees. A deep sense of alarm overwhelms me. I open the door, not knowing what or whom was going to greet me.
“Magdiel!” We greet each other with open arms. Magdiel gives me three slow pats on the back.
“Am I ever happy to see you!”
Magdiel strokes his beard, looking like a Cheshire cat I once owned. His name was Monet. Ben and Monica brought home this beautiful cat, whose main feature was sharp blackish eyes, like Magdiel’s.
Magdiel is wearing a white garment-like cloth and a regular T-shirt proclaiming, “Kabbalah rules!” His hair is as straggly as ever, yet his beard appears to be well-groomed. He looks like a strange mixture of the Maharishi Yoga and a rock star called Jagger from many centuries ago.
Magdiel’s dark eyes roam past me, peering toward the family room. “Look what the cat dragged in,” Maya exclaims. “This must be the famous Magdiel!”
Mags executes his famous nod, exclaiming, “The wedding! But what a shame you picked Michael over me! After all, I am much more handsome than Michael!”
“Good times!” Maya declares as we nearly dance into the family room. Magdiel stops by the picture of the red queen. “The portrait that you’re looking at is a picture of my great-grandmother, about seven generations removed. She was called the red queen!”
“Oh! She’s so elegant!” Magdiel asserts. “I think she and I would have gotten along famously. But I am forgetting something… something very important.” Magdiel points toward the window.
“There she is!” he exclaims. A tall, slender, striking woman stands next to his Carmelite flying car.
“Who is she?” Maya inquires excitedly. We all walk hurriedly toward the eye-catching lady. “She looks so exotic!” Maya quips. She elbows me in the stomach. “Stop smiling,” she says, smiling.
“She looks like a Middle Eastern Orphan Annie,” I say. I know; it’s a hard image to conjure. But if you can imagine the ancient actress Olivia Wilde sporting short black hair with funky bows on her head, well, you have it!
“This is my wife, Hansa!” Magdiel states proudly. “We met one amazing day while bobbing in the Dead Sea!”
The image makes me double over in laughter, clutching my stomach in pain. “Oh, I see!” I couldn’t resist the notion that Magdiel may have floated aimlessly by his now wife. “What a coincidence.”
Hansa’s eyes light up like a Kabbalah Xmas tree. Okay, yes, that image is a little unlikely.
“It was like magic,” she says. Suddenly, there he was, in his Kabbalah T-shirt, just floating in front of me! I think I fell in love with him right there. He’s extremely virile, you know. And now we are man and wife!”
The hours pass quickly, and we discuss many things, including the Victoria threat that is hanging over us. But Magdiel’s news seems to cheer all of us up.
Maya and I can tell how much Hansa means to Magdiel; we observe by the sparkle in her eyes that she loves Magdiel as well. We eat what could be called a fusion of Meso-American cooking. Maya delights in drinking pulque, which is an extraordinary combination of tomatoes and pineapples, while Hansa enjoys the normal Mayan fare of strawberry margaritas.
Magdiel winks, rubbing his stomach. “You’re a lucky man, Michael,” he quips, handing Hansa another Margarita. “Are you trying to get your wife drunk?”
Magdiel inhales the final aphrodisiac tamale. “Hot!” Mags affirms, waving his hands.
“What’s in those tamales?”
Maya’s eyes beam like swords ready to dice their prey. “Three medium garlic cloves, finely chopped; a dose of my special paprika; and a pinch of rare cayenne pepper prepared the Mayan way! It’s my special recipe mixed with my special ingredients.” Maya giggles like a schoolgirl.
Magdiel’s eyes twinkle like a flying saucer. I pat Maya on the back. “I think Magdiel has consumed one too many of your tamales. He’ll be busy tonight,” I say.
“So Michael, do you want to know what actually happened to your time traveler?” Magdiel inquires. The room grows quiet. Hansa’s head lowers, but her eyes are still twinkling. “Kabbalah has always viewed the world from a spiritual place,” Magdiel asserts somberly. There are those that feel that all of this, including now, is just an illusion.”
Leaning forward, I take my last scrumptious bite of tamale. “Illusion, huh? Well, I have to admit that I do think of you as something of an illusion, Magdiel!”
Hansa laughs hysterically. “That’s true. After all, he appears from out of nowhere sometimes, doesn’t he?” We all laugh, somewhat uncomfortably.
“You know,” I say, “you’re right, Hansa. I remember thinking I was all alone floating in the Dead Sea, and suddenly here comes Magdiel with this big goofy grin on his face, floating next to me, from out of nowhere!”
Magdiel grins, looking like an enraptured hazy-eyed swami. “That’s because I knew you needed help my friend—and quickly!”
“So why do you think that we’re all illusions?” I cry. “Can love be an illusion as well? Where is Shakespeare when we need him?”
“Perhaps, my friend Michael. Yet our souls are real. In fact, according to some mystics, Kaballist scholars believe that the entire world is illusory and we are just players inside another actor’s dream.”
I hold out my hand. Maya grabs it. I stare into her eyes. She smiles knowingly. She telepathically sends the message, our bond will never be broken.
“Interesting,” I say slyly. “But I’d like to reply to my friend Magdiel’s comment about the actor’s dream.” I take a quick bite from the ever diminishing supply of apples in the carved wooden bowl.
“Well, if I am just an actor in another actor’s dream, then why is my mouth burning from the tamale?” Magdiel cackles.
I notice that Maya and Hansa remain curiously quiet.
“That’s a great question,” Hansa responds, leaning forward into the circle, forming what appears to be a rugby scrum.
“Do you want to know what my father believed?” My head begins to swim, as if I am truly entering another world. “My father believed in a theory proposed by the great twenty-first-century scientist Juan Maldacena.”
Everyone leans in. I smile and continue unraveling the theory. “My father believed that gravity arises from soft, completely imperceptible strings that originate from nine dimensions of time and space, making one universe the master and the others imposters. You see, holograms are created using three-dimensional images—”
“That are coded on a two-dimensional surface,” Mags adds excitedly.
“Yes, and the holographic image only merely appears to be three-dimensional,” I whisper. The room grows quiet, swimming in an eerie sense of wonder and delight. Strangely, everyone glances from one person to the next, wondering, of course, who isn’t real.
“So Michael, now that we’ve had our fun, what’s really going on?” Mags inquires.
I take a deep breath, grateful that my friends have come to rescue me.
“Thanks for the diversion,” I say.
The room is quiet, swirling in confusion but not fear. “She’s not going away. Victoria won’t rest until she has destroyed me. And she’s using Molly as a pawn.”
“What are we going to do?” Maya says pensively.
“We’re going to resist,” I say defiantly. “I know that’s what Ezekial would expect from all of us…pure and utter defiance.”
Maya’s eyes seem to retreat into another world. “Careful Michael…You can’t step back into your past, remember?”
CHAPTER 53
April 16, 2401
7:54 p.m.
Mags sits on a subatomic, auto-adjusting patio chair under the stars, enjoying my newly created Mayan
cigar, referred to in surveillance circles as a Gran Mayano El Decepte. We begin blowing cryptic smoke rings into the atmosphere; they appear surprisingly like miniature UFOs.
“Estupendamente!” Mags screams.
“I shake my head. “They’re elusive as hell Mags.”
“You’re a misunderstood genius, Michael.”
“It’s about time you realized that.”
Mags is having as much fun as a kid blowing bubbles in the bathtub. He blows like a genie trying to escape from his bottle, watching the smoke spin like a serpent, forming smoke rings, and sending fake messages into the atmosphere like a bottle in the ocean.
“Do you think she’s listening?” Mags inquires.
“She can listen all she wants; she’s not going to find out anything.”
Mags whispers in my ear, “So you’re sending Victoria counterespionage stuff … that’s brilliant. You mean no one taught you this in apprentice time traveler school?”
I puff on my Gran Mayano El Decepte. “I kinda like playing James Bandito.” We both cackle like little schoolgirls, watching the elusive smoky saucers whirl like mad elliptical spaceships, rising upward, ascending quickly and then disappearing into the invisible fabric of the fickle sky. “Take that Vika, or whatever name you’re going by these days. It’s called a smoky cocktail.”
Magdiel cackles. “I don’t think she’s going to be very happy with you once she discovers what you’re doing.” Magdiel blows more smoke rings into the air.
“So Victoria’s men implanted a chip in the back of your head?” Mags queries disbelievingly.
“That’s right, Mags. Now we’re just going to get back at her.” I stare into the endless, inky sky. “The moon and the twinkling stars have been hiding from us all night, afraid to show their faces,” I postulate, taking another drag from my cigar. “Ya know, Mags, this is the first time I haven’t been afraid for a long time.”
“Perhaps you are becoming more spiritually aware?” Mags says, smudging his cigar into the tray as we both watch the smoke fizzle into nothingness.
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