He didn’t immediately realize the other three had been stopped in their tracks.
“Oh!”
“What?”
“Hey, get your mitts off me.”
The others were still standing in the gate, about three feet away. Bohannon could see them clearly enough and hear their voices. But they were on different sides of a barrier. He put out his hand and the surface gave way, like pushing on the side of a water balloon. “You can’t get through?”
Annie had both hands up, leaning against the surface of the barrier. “No. It’s soft, pliable, but it won’t let us through. We’re stuck out here.”
38
11:53 p.m., Babylon
With a crack like thunder, light exploded into the cavern. Not just visible light, but light sizzling like static, skipping over the molecules of the air. Bohannon spun around at the sound and saw the garden spread out before him.
Ripples in a pond, expanding out in waves, growing and building on each pulse, the light washed over the garden. At the center of the pulse stood the trees.
The light around the trees thrummed, an audible sound, as leaves sprouted on the branches of the trees and the leaves turned from white to silver … silver to gray … gray to green. As the trees came to life, the leaves sang. Bohannon marveled as the light around him joined the song. Then before him, in a flash of brilliance, the garden came alive, more lush and green than anything he could have imagined. He was astounded by the variety and the volume of growing things. Above it all, at the heart of it all, the trees stood apart. Like the core of the sun, the intense light that beat forth from the trees was blinding and spellbinding.
Then the choir of the garden joined in, its massed music rising and falling like flood waters over boulders.
Overwhelmed by what was revealed before him, Bohannon felt a presence. He looked up as an image materialized, just inside the gate, a gigantic angelic presence that morphed from voice, to vapor, to shadow—to what appeared as a being of substance. He was dressed as a warrior. A glimmering helmet covered his head but not the long, dark, flowing hair that cascaded over his shoulders. A golden breastplate, shining like the risen sun, ended at a sash of spun gold that cinched a silver girdle around his waist. Golden boots covered his feet, ankles, and calves. All this Bohannon took in with one swift glance. But his attention continued to be drawn to two things: the furled wings that rounded on either side of his head, tucked behind his broad shoulders, and the flaming sword that hung loosely from his right hand.
The angel raised the tip of the sword, the muscles of his forearm flexing, and pointed it at Bohannon.
“You are welcome here, man of God. You have been called to fulfill your purpose.”
Bohannon was entranced by the beauty of the angelic being. The young man’s skin was alabaster, with the incandescent glow of old pearls, and flawless. His lips were full and red, his nose long and aquiline. His hair was shiny and black, a mass of waves that tumbled around his face, framing crystal green eyes. Every movement manifested a fluid grace that failed to mask a physical strength that was formidable.
The angel’s words resonated like cymbals in the cavern and spun in the air like an invitation to a dance—light and melodic. His voice was clear and firm, softly modulated. But in its words, in its breaths and pauses, it seemed like bells chimed in a far distance.
Bohannon nearly collapsed in surprised shock when the angel smiled at him. It moved closer and lowered itself to hover just over the floor.
“I am Gabriel,” he said.
And Bohannon recognized the face.
He didn’t know whether to cry or laugh, kneel or run. He felt secure and insane at the same time. This was the face he had seen in the gniza of the Ades Synagogue, the Gabriel who had spoken to him and Annie—or the young man’s angelic twin—about three times the size.
“I … we …” Bohannon’s lips moved, but his mind no longer worked. Every conscious cell in his body focused on the face. Not on the huge wings that now spread out before him, dimming the light. Not on the flaming sword that Gabriel held point-down, his hands resting on the hilt. On the face … only the face. Its radiance made the portal gate look like a candle.
Gabriel held out his left hand, palm open.
“You are most welcome. We celebrate your arrival.”
Thousands of questions throttled through Bohannon’s mind. None escaped.
“You are all welcome here.” He gestured toward Annie, Sammy, and Joe, held behind the barrier. “Don’t be afraid,” said Gabriel.
“Afraid?” said Rizzo, just loud enough to be heard. “He’s not the one facing a three-story angel with a flaming sword. I’ve felt calmer on the Bowery at midnight than I do now.”
The archangel Gabriel put his hand back on the sword’s grip, leaned on it, and knelt on his right knee, bringing him into closer proximity to Tom, who looked up into his dazzling beauty and felt embraced by all creation.
“You, favored one, have overcome much, learned much, persevered much to reach this point. Well done, faithful servant. We’ve been waiting for you. Only you could open the gate. But your calling is not yet complete.”
Often rehearsed but never answered, the questions came tumbling out. “But why me?” Tom asked. “What do you need with me? You’re an angel. You’ve got power. Why didn’t you open the gate? I’ve been told you’re the governor of Eden. So what do you need me for? Why have we been put through all this?”
Tom saw compassion and empathy in Gabriel’s eyes.
“You know prayers and questions of ‘why’ are seldom answered in ways that are clear. Noah asked why. Abraham, David—they asked why. But even when their question of why wasn’t answered, they listened and obeyed. They had faith. Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. You have been presented with the same calling. To walk in faith and help bring forth the purposes of the Almighty. Throughout the history of creation, the Creator has called upon men to help work out his plan, because this created earth is the dominion of man. It was given to you to oversee. It was intended for your blessing.
“That plan was corrupted by the evil one who fell from heaven. And since that moment, the Creator’s purpose has been to return his creation to the men for whom it was created. Many men have been called to be a part of that purpose. The Creator looks for men who have reverent awe of his presence. Not men who are perfect—there are none perfect, only one. But men who have a heart to earnestly follow the Creator’s will and purpose. Men like you.
“It was man who lost his place in the garden. It must be man who reclaims that place. And it must be man who once again is entrusted with the staff of power, entrusted to bring the Creator’s purpose to completion in the dominion of man.
“But understand this. The time of the Gentiles is now fulfilled. As there are seven gates to the garden, there are twelve gates to the New Jerusalem, where the One and Only King will reign for one thousand years and his scepter will unleash his power. The 144,000 will come to the Tree of Life for their reward.”
Gabriel lifted up, away from the ground. He spread his wings and raised the sword before him, awesome and overwhelming.
“These words are true: ‘Then he told me, “Do not seal up the words of the prophecy of this scroll, because the time is near…. Look, I am coming soon! My reward is with me, and I will give to each person according to what they have done. I am the Alpha and the Omega, the First and the Last, the Beginning and the End. Blessed are those who wash their robes, that they may have the right to the tree of life and may go through the gates into the city.”’
“These words are true: ‘Truly I tell you, some who are standing here will not taste death before they see the Son of Man coming in his kingdom.’”
Gabriel’s emerald green eyes focused on Bohannon. “Now is your time. Come. But”—Gabriel pointed his flaming sword at the others—“you may not enter. Stand fast. Do not cross the threshold of the gate. Touch this ground, and you will surely d
ie.”
“Tom—”
He turned to look into Annie’s face. She was beaming. Not a trace of fear, only beatific joy and wonder. “Stay here. I’ll be back.”
39
Tom drew in a breath, and all his courage, and staggered forward, the message to his legs as scattered and erratic as the impressions on his mind. He felt the gate close behind him, heard the thump as its weight settled into place. But he didn’t turn around. There was too much in front of him.
As soon as he stepped through the gate, he heard the song.
Not words, so much. Though the song was real, and the singers were real, and they were singing something. But not words that Tom knew or understood. Except for the Great Hallel—a hallelujah chorus that shook the foundations of the garden—that every so often rang out like exploding flames on the surface of the sun.
The song lived throughout the garden. The garden.
Impossible, but here in the bowels of the earth, a thousand feet removed from the sun, the garden was alive. Trees, bushes, shrubs, abundant grass-filled meadows, forested hills, stands of pine soaring high … Tom could see it all from where he stood. The green of the garden was intense and expansive, as if he had walked into a home where everything—walls, floors, furniture, curtains, everything—was deep, vibrant, pulsing green. Except the sky.
Whereas the wall and the gates disappeared up into a twilight haze in the higher reaches of the cavern, inside the garden, a bristling blue sky stretched beyond his sight, so pure it dazzled his senses—as if the sun were shining through the pristine prism of Caribbean cerulean. A breeze, strong but soft, comforting yet refreshing, invited the leaves and bushes, the blades of grass, to dance to the song.
Across the vast reaches of the garden, all living things moved. Trees remained bound by their roots but not by their molecules. It wasn’t as if the garden were suffering through an earthquake, everything swaying at the mercy of the shifting earth. No, this was a choreographed expression of joy, the explosion of ecstasy in response to creation. All things were swept up in the song and its luxurious rhythm.
Tom felt himself swaying, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, unable to control the movement of his body in response to the invitation of the dance. The blood pulsed in his veins, keeping perfect time with the pulse of life that washed like a tide against his skin.
The light lived, a heartbeat that encompassed all. In the background of the song, the light thrummed an accompaniment, in unity of motion with the dance, in unity of spirit with the song. Dizzying, electrifying, exhilarating—the song and the ballet and the light gave glory to God and his Creation.
In the middle of it all stood the trees.
Tom couldn’t tell if the trees were the source of the song, the rhythmic movement, and the light. But the trees shimmered, they pulsed, they beat like a great, cosmic heart pumping life into the far reaches of the garden.
There was no telling how long he stood there, just inside the gate, absorbing the magnificent celebration unfolding before his eyes. Content, he probably could have remained in place for a long time. A lifetime? But suddenly he felt the urgency to move forward.
Tom shifted his weight to the left, began lifting one foot—and was airborne.
Not flying. He wasn’t off the ground far enough to call it flying. Skimming.
Not levitating—that signified floating in place. No, this was skimming, moving like a breeze just above the blades of grass, his feet not touching the ground, his mind dictating his direction. Slowly, languidly he drifted, drawn toward the trees.
Two of them stood in a small glade, framed by a few low, green hills. Healthy, vibrant, large-limbed trees, profuse with glossy-surfaced leaves. As Bohannon was beckoned nearer, they appeared identical. Their pulse was a symphony, sung in duet. He was at peace, all sense of dread suspended at the gate.
He settled to the grass like mist in the morning, a caress on the ground, about twenty feet away from the trees. This close, he could hear the hum and see the vibration in the trees’ bark at the same time, like a giant bow string loosed. Bohannon studied the two trees, looking for the staff, looking for some way to differentiate between the Tree of Life and the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. When he saw the fruit.
Apple was not an apt description. They were round and red, yes. But, oh, so much more. Supple, luscious, crimson, dew running over their sides, heavy droplets imploding in the soft earth. The luminescence of the skin glowed like a holiday lantern. And the smell—his grandmother’s apple pie just from the oven, the juice still bubbling up its side.
Tom tasted the aroma, feasted on the beauty. His mouth began salivating.
He heard a whisper on the inside of his ear. “Not for you, son of man.”
A brisk breeze wafted across his eyes. Bohannon blinked, and when he looked again, the tree with the fruit had split down its middle. In the midst of the rent trunk, held fast by its host, stood the crook of a shepherd’s staff. The life coming forth from the staff was abundant. It sprouted branches, and flowers budded and bloomed from every branch.
Bohannon tried to will his body to skim once more over the grass, but it wouldn’t move. Every element of his consciousness fell like gravity upon that staff of wood. He was euphoric in response to the song and the dance, apprehensive in the enormity of his location, but fascinated and drawn to the reality of Aaron’s staff, not twenty feet away. And he couldn’t move.
Reluctant to touch anything in the wrong way, he wondered how he was to get the staff.
You receive it.
Tom felt his right arm—painless now—rise from his side until it was parallel with the ground. The fingers of his right hand opened, his palm held out before him. He stood as if beckoning to the trees, to the staff.
A shaft of brilliant sunlight fell on the staff, blinding Bohannon for an eye-blink as a thud hit his right palm and drove him back a few steps. His sight clearing, Bohannon stared at Aaron’s staff, now as firmly planted in his hand as it had a heartbeat before been planted in the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. The staff felt warm, a fading sizzle withdrawing into its supple bark. As he watched spellbound, the budding and blooming branches of Aaron’s staff withered and receded, some fell to the ground. And the staff died in his hand.
He turned it over, as if there might be some other result on the opposite side, but the staff had not only fallen dormant, it was dead. Not only withered, but also dried, cracked, a knot hole opening just below the crook, a fissure opening a third of the way down the bark and running half its length. It felt, and looked, thousands of years old—heavy, yet brittle. More like stone than wood.
Bohannon brought the staff to his chest and held it securely, both hands cradling its length and supporting its weight.
He looked up to the trees, and realized the song had ended. The light was fading. The pulse of the dance slowed to a stop. As he watched, the staff tight in his grasp, the garden of God became vapor before his eyes. The hills evaporated. The meadows floated away in a swirling mist. Alone, twilight closing around them, the trees began to eject their leaves in great explosions of green.
They waited outside the gate and, every so often, touched the invisible barrier that barred their way to the garden. Annie stood quietly, her hands resting against the barrier, her eyes closed, praying for her husband’s safety, while Joe prowled a tight circle, anxiety showing in every step.
“How can you be so calm?” Joe said as he passed Annie on one of his circuits.
Annie glanced over her shoulder at his passing. “Because Tom is in God’s hands—more now than ever before in his life. If I can’t trust God to keep my husband safe now, when can I? Where can I?”
Joe stopped with a jolt. His head down, he ran a hand across his face, then he turned to Annie. “But how can you be sure? I mean … I believe there’s a God.” He waved his hand. “How could I ever doubt what the Bible says now? But disasters happen. People get sick and die. There’s evil in the world. I belie
ve there’s a God, but how can I be sure enough to trust him all of the time?”
“That’s one of the gifts of prayer, Joe. Peace. A peace that surpasses circumstances. I was really anxious when we came up to the gate, too. I’ve been anxious and frightened for months. But now? Now I’m peaceful. As long as I’m praying, I’m peaceful. It doesn’t—
“Ooohhh.” Annie glanced up as the light in the cavern began to fade, as if someone was using a master dimmer switch—even affecting Joe’s flashlight. Twilight was descending rapidly, promising imminent darkness.
“Oh, this is not good,” said Rizzo.
40
Before he could blink, utter darkness engulfed him. Tom stood rooted to the spot. He didn’t know what to do next. It was as if he had lost his sight in some cataclysmic accident, the blindness was so complete. How could he take a step? Which direction could he go?
“Annie, can you see anything?”
Joe’s voice—close.
“Where are you?”
Annie’s voice!
“Annie?”
If it hadn’t been for the voices, when the hand touched his shoulder he probably would have suffered a heart attack from fright. Holding fast to the staff, Tom swept out with his left hand toward Annie’s voice and almost immediately felt his fingers against her cheek.
Their words jumbled over each other as they came together in a knot, hugging each other tightly.
“How did you get here?”
“Where is here?”
“Did you find it?”
“Did God give you a free pass to heaven? I might need it.”
“I’ve got it.”
The Aleppo Code (The Jerusalem Prophecies) Page 33