The Eschaton, Cover

Prologue

Temple Mount, October 16th (the third day of Sukkoth) 9:12 am

When Isaac Barresh was a boy, he knew without question that the promised messiah was about to arrive. His family had moved to the Holy Land in 1953 to become proud citizens of the new nation of Israel. It had been a time of unprecedented hope. Ezekiel’s prophesies seemed to be coming true. The Diaspora was over. The Temple Mount, denied to Jews since 70 AD, was finally within their grasp. Like many in Israel at the time, Isaac understood that these signs heralded the imminent rise of a new messiah.

That was sixty years ago.

Now, half a mile from the Wailing Wall, Isaac could already see the crowd of Muslims gathering near Al Aqsa. They’d be boys mostly— teenagers full of vigor and purpose ready to defend their faith with rocks and insults. Rabbi Baird had weeded out the worst of the trouble makers from their own procession, but Isaac could still see fervor in the eyes of the young men who walked with them. There would be bloodshed today.

“It wasn’t always like this.” he said to the closest of them.

“What!?” the boy replied, barely registering Isaac’s voice above the chants.

“I said it was not always like this.” Isaac repeated, louder this time. “The Six Day War. I was there. I was part of the first brigade to pass through the Lion’s Gate and take control of the Temple Mount.”

“We should have killed them all back then and been done with it!” the boy said, smiling. When he realized that Isaac was not smiling back he turned away abruptly, losing himself in the crowd.
Their procession followed the old roads to the Mugrabi Gate. There, Rabbi Baird stopped the pickup truck that carried the Cornerstone of the New Temple. Isaac had walked in this procession for twenty-three years now, and had seen his share of violence and death come with it. He also had taken the long road back from the Temple, watching as the Cornerstone— and the hope it represented— was packed away for another year.

Still, he hoped. He prayed. And he walked.

The turnout had been good. By the time they were at the gate their numbers had grown to several hundred. There had been demonstrations earlier in the week, and the Knesset had been forced to prevent the stone from actually passing onto the Temple Mount itself. Instead they would pray at the gate, far from the confrontations that waited within.

It seemed that the plan to keep the peace had worked. As they neared the gate, the priests were singing the old hymns, unimpeded by the Muslims who looked on from above. For the moment, Isaac allowed himself to believe that it would all go well. They would finish the blessing, say their prayers, and he would be back home before noon. He eyed the walls above, wary, but content that the Muslims there meant them no harm so long as they did not carry the stone across the threshold.

It was because he was watching the Muslims that Isaac missed the real threat. Without warning their small crowd suddenly grew to a thousand as armed men erupted from every side street and building, easily overwhelming the procession. The first of them, presumably their leader, leapt on the back of the pickup, pushing Rabbi Baird aside. The singing stopped.

“People of Israel hear me!” the man cried. “This time… this time the Cornerstone will not fail!”
Isaac groaned. Though they had kept the enemy at bay, they had failed to keep their own zealots in check. There were hundreds of them, far more than he had ever seen at any one time.

“You have brought this stone here to have a Temple built!” the man shouted. “We are here to finish the task that you have so nobly begun!”

Isaac had seen what a few fanatics (from either side) could do. This many at the Temple itself, with the Cornerstone to incite them, was a nightmare. As the words floated around him, Isaac said his prayers, sure that these would be the last minutes of his life.

“None of your number need die here today.” the man continued. “Before we take the Mount, I ask that each of you go home to your loved ones. This fight belongs to all Jews, but this battle is ours! We have planned for it! We are ready for it! I ask that each of you step aside and watch as the power of Yahweh is manifested for His people!”

Isaac opened his eyes, as if checking to see that he had heard the words correctly. They were being given the chance to leave before the bullets started flying. It was unprecedented.

Rabbi Baird spoke next.

“People!” Baird said to the assembly. “These men are here for their own purposes. If we need not be harmed in this madness, I say we should do as he asks. Go home. I want my people safe.”
Baird had barely finished the sentence when the strangers moved forward, seizing control of the truck and the Cornerstone. The congregation was pushed back, leaving Isaac and his assembly on the outside of a growing mass of weapons and men.

He immediately understood his position. Once free from the throng, Isaac moved quickly toward the open boulevard, searching for cover before the onslaught began. It was only a few hundred yards to the old buildings that would shelter him, but his bones rattled with the effort. The first shots were already firing as he threw himself around the corner, huddling behind ancient brick.
He watched from his hiding spot. The first string of shots quickly became a chorus. Muslim gunmen had the high ground, but the insurgents cared little about this. They rushed the guns, allowing the first of them to be cut down by the initial volley. Those behind stepped over, brazenly running straight into the next shot. Eerily, Isaac began to see their strategy; make the Muslims empty their magazines, then charge while they reloaded. It was macabre, but it was working. They were gaining ground fast.

“There is still the problem of the Cornerstone.” a voice said from behind Isaac. “The bridge is built for people, not trucks. They are not going to get that stone across it.”

Isaac turned to acknowledge his fellow witness, assuming it to be another of the procession who had taken cover behind the building.

“I doubt they have any inten—” Isaac said, stopping in mid-sentence. A figure was hovering just above him, its immense ankle wavering mere inches from Isaac’s face.

“I have fought many battles in my day.” the being continued. “Some of them on this very spot. But the strategy of this… It is either insanity or genius. I can not yet decide.”

Isaac could only gape as the being’s enormous head peered over the wall, studying the battle. Huge white wings silhouetted him. Massive arms, bronze and muscular, were folded leisurely across a leather battle harness. The sword sheathed at his side licked flames at the edge of a six-foot scabbard.

Isaac fell to his knees. The being diverted his glance long enough to cast a quizzical look at Isaac’s prostration, but promptly returned his attention to the battle.

“They’re going to win.” he continued. “Though to what end remains to be seen. I can only assume that there is a plan at work here that I have not yet discerned.”

“Lord…” Isaac said from the ground.

“I am no one’s lord.” the being said, a note of annoyance in his voice. Then, tearing his attention from the Mount, he lowered himself to the ground in front of Isaac. “I serve no man, and no man serves me.” he said. “I am Michael, archangel and commander of the Armies of Light.”

“Why have you appeared to me?” Isaac asked without looking.

Michael tilted his head slightly. “I was watching the battle. It was you that ran into me.” he said tersely. Then, as if to himself, he added “The Muslims are falling back.”

Isaac braved a glance toward the archangel. Michael’s colossal form was leaning over him now, stretching past the protection of the wall to catch every bit of the action. The lowest of his feathers were hovering just above Isaac’s bowed head, brisling against his scalp. He recoiled from the sensation.

“Sorry.” Michael said perfunctorily. The giant wings leapt up, their span billowing over the archangel’s shoulders.

“There…!” Michael said suddenly. Isaac jumped, sliding across the dust to the corner of the wall. When he looked up Michael was standing back, his face casual.

“They are in. The Muslims will put up no more fight. Though that is not to say that this is over.” Michael said, his eyes still scanning the area.

Isaac was breathing hard, but his wits were still with him. He summoned the courage to speak.
“Michael...” he said lowly. “If I may call you Michael..?”

“I’d prefer it.” the archangel replied without looking.

“Tell me… Is your presence a sign that the messiah is coming?”

“No.” Michael replied flatly, his focus still on the Mount.

A hope died in Isaac. “But the prophesies are true, are they not!?” Isaac asked.

Content that the battle was over, Michael turned his full attention to Isaac “You asked if my being here was a sign of His coming. It is not.”

“But there is a messiah.” Isaac affirmed.

Michael seemed to pause, then answered. “There is.”

“When will he come to us?” Isaac implored.

The archangel allowed himself the luxury of a sigh. His countenance was strong and resolute, but there was a hint of trouble in his eyes. Isaac watched, terrified but anxious to hear what Michael could tell him.

“I wish I knew.” Michael said.

“You do not know?” Isaac asked, incredulous. “You are an angel. An archangel! For sixty years I have prayed that the signs would bring to us he who we are promised… God’s anointed who will lead Israel. How can an archangel not know of this?”

“I know the prophesies.” Michael answered, slightly indignant. “But the signs are not as they should be. This battle… the taking of the Mount… I can not reconcile the timing of it with what The Voice has prophesied for the messiah’s return. It is why I am here… measuring the events against the words I have been given.”

“You do not know God’s plan?” Isaac asked, his voice trembling.

“I am a warrior. I act only on the orders given me. Beyond this, I interpret the signs as you humans do.”

For a few moments there was silence between them. Isaac digested the archangel’s words. Michael, for his part, busied himself with his wing, examining it for defects. Eventually he pulled a single feather loose, letting it drop to the ground with a look of satisfaction.

“You know only as much as humans?” Isaac asked, unable to hide his disappointment.

“I know only what The Voice tells me.” Michael said. “There is a battle to come. The Demons of Darkness will rise to fight the angels of Light, and the Earth will be laid waste by their battles. There will be earthquakes, plagues, and death the like of which the world has never seen. And yes, there is to be a new messiah on the throne of Israel. All of this is to happen, but I do not know the hour of its coming.”

“But… you lead the army!” Isaac protested. “You must have some idea of when this final battle is supposed to happen!”

Peering past the wall, Michael took stock of the situation on the Mount. The gunfire had stopped. Military vehicles were on the scene now, as were the news crews. The archangel stepped back to consider it.

“Saturday.” Michael guessed. “But as I said, the signs are imprecise. It could begin any time between Thursday and Sunday.”

*****

Chapter One

Jenna Vaas, Thursday, October 17, Upstate

Jenna Vaas had rented the same small, third-story walk-up since she’d started her doctoral studies three years ago. In that time only four people had ever knocked on her door; her father, her landlord, and two Mormon missionaries. None had called on her at 7:30 in the morning. For a moment she just stared at the door, her half-awake mind wondering if she’d just imagined it. Two heartbeats later, another knock confirmed the first.

“Hello..?.” she asked, making no move toward the door.

“Miss Vass?” a voice came from the other side. It was male, decidedly young. “Miss Vass, I’m sorry but I’ve been sent by Professor Hayes to get you. He said it was vitally important.” A brief silence, then, feebly; “I have a note…”

Jenna sighed. She had over an hour before she was to give a lecture on the Second Temple Era. If Professor Hayes was sending an undergrad to get her early, it could only mean one thing: She’d be covering the old man’s classes again this week. It boded poorly for the rest of the term.
She opened the door just as the freshman started to knock again. Had she been more awake she might actually have chuckled as the boy’s hand hit thin air on the third rap. Instead, Jenna turned and headed for the bathroom, leaving her morning messenger staring at the now-open door.

“Let me guess…” she said over her shoulder. “Hayes is taking another of his famous week-long sabbaticals?” She reached the bathroom before the boy had a chance to reply, but he tried anyway.

“There’s no classes so… no.” the boy said from the doorway. “But with everything happening I think Professor Hayes needs you there.”

Jenna heard none of this above the din of the toothbrush and running water.

“I’m gonna be a couple minutes.” she called from the bathroom. “You might as well come in and wait.”

The boy obliged, closing the door behind him. Finding a stool next to the island, he sat, waiting patiently. He could hear the sounds of various cases opening and closing in the bathroom. When her foot appeared in the doorway he briefly stood up, but relaxed when he saw it stretch out, catch the corner of the door, and push it closed. For the next few seconds he stared intently at the plastic cat figurine on the fridge as the unmistakable sound of her peeing filled the small apartment. There were other, nondescript noises; the toilet flushing, then the bathroom door burst open. The boy sat bolt upright.

Jenna had transformed from bed-head to beauty in less than ten minutes. The freshman couldn’t help but appreciate both the clothes and the form they covered. He guessed her to be about 5’6”, maybe 120 pounds. Her legs and waist were thin but proportioned. She was older, but definitely worth looking at. His guess was that she was over thirty, though her breasts still looked firm. There was no sign of gravity hav—­

He realized she was watching him.

His face flushed crimson as he jumped from the stool, pulling an envelope from his back pocket. He brandished it toward her as the first, best distraction he could find.

“I was supposed to give you this right away but you were… you were busy.” he said. Jenna took the envelope, ignoring the boy’s embarrassment.

She had assumed that the early-morning communiqué would be a list of additional classes she was going to have to teach. Instead, she found that it contained a single page, scrawled in Professor Hayes’ own handwriting. No letterhead, no salutation.

The note simply read:

Jenna:
Pack a small carry-on bag of light clothing. Your passport is on file at the registrar, and I have taken the liberty of having it sent to my office. It will be with me when you arrive.
Note that I have expedited your doctorate program. As of this morning you are a fully credited Ph. D. I only wish it were under better circumstances. We leave at 10 am sharp.
Doris will fill you in on the details.
~Regards, W. Hayes

She read the note twice, but it didn’t help. She could, of course, just phone the office. But that would mean having to navigate through receptionist to get to Hayes. Whatever the situation, if was not dire enough to spur her into an early morning conversation with Doris. Besides, it was a short trip to the university. She would find out all she needed to know when she got there.

*****

Her morning herald walked her as far as the cab, then bowed out as graciously as he could.
As she sped toward the university, Jenna was imagining every possible explanation to fit the facts, but kept coming up short. Hayes was just not the type to send cryptic messages. He was friendly, even jovial at times, but he was also one of the most respected men in his field. The religion department received most of their grant money simply by having him tenured there. The idea of him scribbling a note for some freshman to bring to her first thing in the morning was, at best, out of character. The fact that the note promised her a Ph.D. without defending it in front of the committee was absurd. That was the word that kept coming back to her… ‘absurd’. No matter what she came up with, nothing fit the facts.

By the time the cab turned onto the verdant lane leading to Theology Hall, she had all but given up trying to figure it out. Whatever it was, she would know in mere minutes when she got to Hayes’ office. In the meantime, she sat staring at the small overnight bag she carried. It hadn’t been used for two years, since she’d broken up with Jim. Back then, it was the perfect size to carry the bare essentials for a night’s tryst; toothbrush, a change of underwear, and a clean towel. (She had had precious few lovers in her life, but had learned that if a woman wanted clean towels, she had best import them.)

It was the bag that prompted her next thought; a sudden, inescapable panic that flooded her mind: Sex. Until just this second she had assumed that whatever reason Hayes had for sending the note was professional. But what if the note had been an invitation? “Pack only a small carry-on bag of light clothing” it had said. The words suddenly jumped off the page at her, a more sinister interpretation now seeming to make sense of it all. She had done it. She was arriving (in a cab of all things) with her overnight bag in hand, ready to barter for an early Ph.D. It all fit.

“That’s $6.50, Miss.” the driver said, stopping the cab in front of the high, arched doorway. She thought briefly about telling the driver to keep going, to drive her back home or to the dean’s office or the cafeteria. Anywhere so she could— No.

Breathing deep, she very deliberately pulled a ten-dollar bill from her pocket, handed it to the driver, and waited for change. She might be right. Hayes might be trying something on her and, until she stepped out of this cab, she might have been falling for it. But she was not going to be cowed into running away. Despite whatever he may have in mind, she was going to be professional and disciplined.

Besides, she thought to herself, It’s been two years. The old guy might be biting off more than he can chew.

This last thought both surprised and amused her.

“I guess you guys are gonna be busy.” the cabbie said as he handed her the change. She took it and got without comment, lost as she was in her own thoughts. The cab was halfway down the lane before the driver’s words finally registered in her mind.

“Busy?” she said aloud. “When is a theology department ever ‘busy’?”

*****

Jenna was in the building and up two flights of stairs before she realized that something was definitely wrong. It wasn’t until she passed room 302 (where she was supposed to be giving a lecture in half an hour) that it occurred to her what it was. The place was deserted. At this time of day there should have been dozens of students wandering about. Instead, she was passing empty classrooms, empty hallways, and (most disturbing) an empty student lounge. She couldn’t remember a time, day or night, when the lounge hadn’t been full of students using it as an unofficial study hall, kitchen, and crash pad.

She had every intention of going to see Hayes directly, but regardless of what was happening she felt a quick stop at her own office was required. Unlocking the door, she dropped the overnight bag into the darkness. Free of it, closed the office door behind her, making her way past the chapel to the Administration Office. As she approached, she heard the first sounds of life since entering the building: Doris’ shrill voice echoing down the corridors.

“The dean called to say that the entire endowment fund is available if you need it.” Doris was saying. “At least money isn’t going to be a problem.”

“You know it’s big when the dean opens the purse straps.” Hayes’ voice replied.

“Be that as it may, the money is there if you need it.” Doris replied.

“I don’t.” Hayes said coldly. “If this all goes as planned, the admin are going to have more grant money than they know what to do with. If it doesn’t…”

“If it doesn’t, you don’t want to owe your ass to a bunch of bureaucrats.” Doris finished for him. The perky lilt in her voice reminded Jenna of why she loathed the woman. Hayes had always said that the department could not function without her, but Jenna had always been willing to give it a shot. Just hearing the woman’s voice was grating.

“I wouldn’t have put it quite that succinctly, but I think you’ve summed it up rather well.” Hayes continued.

“I try.” Doris chirped, trying to sound coy despite all evidence to the contrary. “I’ve got to go pick up the permits and sign the releases. I’ll be back in a few with the newspapers if you still want them. Anything else while I’m out?” she asked.

“Energy.” Hayes’ voice droned.

“Just put a new pot on. Should be ready in about five minutes if you can live that long.”

“I’ll do my best.” he said.

A second too late Jenna realized that Doris was about to pass right by her on the way out. The woman’s bullish stride gave Jenna no time to avoid her. Doris stormed the doorway in classic Doris fashion, bumping Jenna back a full foot before stopping. Though she was several inches shorter than Jenna (and about ninety pounds heavier) Doris still managed to glare her straight in the eye.

“Seems your protégé is here.” she shouted back to Hayes. “Shall I send her in?”

“Dear God, yes.” Hayes called back “Somebody’s going to have to pour the coffee.”

Doris’ eyes never left Jenna’s, but her lips curled up into a broad, fake smile. “You may go in now Jenna.” she said. Before Jenna could respond the woman dismissed her with a curt nod, brushed past, and traipsed down the hall.

*****

Entering the office Jenna was struck by two equally bizarre images.

The first was Hayes himself. Though he was in his mid-sixties, he had always carried his 6’1” frame with strength and vigor. Now, slumped in a black swivel chair, he looked like an old man in a nursing home. Dark circles had appeared under his eyes. A day’s growth of beard was coming in white and bushy beneath pursed lips. His suit jacket was strewn across the coffee table, a red double-Windsor hung loosely around a bust of Galileo.

The second thing that struck Jenna was that Hayes was not alone. There were two men seated on the sofa across from him. Both were about 30 years old, in good shape, with brown hair and eyes. They might have been dismissed as grad students were it not for the semi- automatic weapons slung over their shoulders. It was the weapons that held Jenna’s attention.

“Yes they are real. No, they are not to be worried about.” Hayes said simply.

“Now that I did not expect.” Jenna said, her attention still locked on the weapons.

“I’m afraid we have a lot to cover and very little time to do so.” Hayes said. “How much do you know of what’s happened?”

Jenna broke her stare to address Hayes. “I know that one of your students showed up at my house with a note telling me I had my Ph. D. I know I’m supposed to go somewhere with you. I also know that my classes seem to be canceled, and there are two guys with guns sitting in the admin office. So if it’s not too much trouble, I’d really like to have some of this make sense now.” She was talking faster than she intended, suddenly aware that there was more than just anger behind her words.

“Canceling classes was not my idea. The dean made the decision that a World Religions Department isn’t the safest place this week. The rest of the university is business as usual, but Theology Hall is going to remain on hiatus until things calm down.” Hayes said.

“What ‘things’…” Jenna demanded, her voice suddenly sounding more girlish than she’d ever wanted it to. “I got your message to get here as soon as possible, and I did. Why?”

With a resigned look of pain Hayes pushed himself from up the chair, his joints popping as he rose.

“Follow me.” he said, walking into his office. “And bring coffee.”

*****

Five minutes later Hayes was seated in the ancient leather chair behind his desk, coffee in hand. Opposite him, on the far-less-comfortable metal chair, Jenna watched as her mentor added copious amounts of sugar to his cup.

“You need to get cable.” he said, clicking the remote control for the small television in the far corner of the office. Jenna ignored it.

“What makes you think I don’t have cable?” she asked.

“If you did, you’d have been in here hours ago and you wouldn’t be asking a very old, very tired professor to bring you up to date.”

“I hardly think...”

“Ah there it is...” Hayes said, finding the news station. “You watch. I drink coffee.”

Jenna turned her attention to the screen. A reporter was in the foreground of what looked like ruins of some sort. The mute was on, and she struggled to read the captions that flew by above the ticker.

“Oh... sorry. I usually keep the noise off. It gets damned annoying hearing the same thing over and over. Here…” Hayes said, un-muting it. Immediately the reporter’s voice filled the room with patented gravitas.

“What we know at the moment is that just after midnight our time a group called the Temple Mount Faithful brought the Cornerstone of their New Temple to the Temple Mount in Jerusalem.” the reporter was saying.

“They do that every year on Tisha b'Av.” Jenna remarked to Hayes. He merely pointed her back toward the television.

The reporter continued: “We know that there have been confrontations between Jews and Muslims during these stone ceremonies before…”

“Aw geez…” Jenna said, the possible ramifications immediately obvious to her.

“Witnesses claim that a group overtook the ceremonies. The Temple Mount Faithful have decried any foreknowledge of the incident, claiming that their rabbis were just as surprised as anyone else when the throng descended.”

“They brought the stone into the Old City?” Jenna asked. Hayes allowed the newscaster to answer.

“Israeli militia units were dispatched to bring the crowd under control, but the attackers had breached the Al Aqsa Mosque before the military arrived.”

Jenna sat motionless. The Al Aqsa Mosque sits at the entrance to the Shrine of the Golden Dome, a monument to Islam’s claim over the Holy City. For one Jew to step across its threshold was forbidden. For hundreds to try to take it by force…

“Preliminary reports estimate that over two hundred have been killed or wounded.” the reporter continued.

“I understand that none of the surviving Al Aqsa guards have in fact been harmed?” the anchor’s voice said.

“No, Dan, none at all. When the insurgents overtook the Mount, the Muslims—including Imam Ali of the Al Aqsa Mosque— were released virtually unharmed.”

“They seem to be awfully nice terrorists…” Jenna muttered.

“It gets stranger, trust me.” Hayes added.

“Currently Iran, Syria, and Egypt have each threatened to retake the Mosque and grounds, though immediate action has been tentatively halted by the release of a video from the attackers.” The correspondent’s face disappeared and was replaced with footage of the Temple Mount. “As you can see, the video shows both the mosque and the shrine to be wired with what appear to be explosives. The group is claiming that they will blow up all of Zion if confronted.”
“Iran and Egypt can’t be willing to let this go.” Jenna said. “Surely they’re willing to risk losing the building to maintain ownership of the land?”

As if in answer, the correspondent’s face returned. “The attackers have vowed that they are only interested in holding the Mount for one week.” the correspondent continued. “Afterwards, they claim they will surrender without incident. The League of Arab Nations is—” The word MUTE appeared in green letters across the face of the correspondent as he attempted to expound on the situation.

“They’re expecting to anoint a new king of Israel.” Jenna said.

“Precisely.” Hayes responded.

“And they figure that news of a new messiah would solidify Israeli opposition before the week is up.” Jenna said, mulling implications.

“That’s the best guess.” Hayes said.

A light went on for Jenna. The details were still fuzzy, but she could finally begin to understand why she had been called in. Her thesis (and the focus of all her research for the last five years) had been on the restoration of the Israeli crown. She probably knew more about the line of Kings and the laws governing them than most rabbis.

“Are we to assume that they are abiding by Judaic law?” she asked.

“We have no idea who’s in charge, or what they believe. But we do know that they seem to be following the Judaic traditions to the letter.”

“Which means they are not looking for the return of a Jesus character. They’re looking for the arrival of a new Israeli king.” she said. “It’s pretty much impossible. Actually, it is impossible.”
“Why impossible?” Hayes asked, donning his mentor demeanor.

“According to the Torah, Yahweh gave the power to the prophets to find and anoint a new king. This is where we get the name messiah… it means ‘Anointed One’… the person anointed by the prophet to be the new king of Israel. To begin with, they’re going to need a prophet.”

“I think we can assume that they believe they have one.” Hayes said.

“OK... Assuming they have a prophet, and assuming he found someone that he recognized as the new king, he would still have to anoint the king’s forehead with the Holy Oil of Anointing. It can’t be done. The oil was lost in the Jewish Revolt of 70AD.”

“Except…” said Hayes.

“Except what? They just happen to have a two-thousand-year-old bottle of Holy Oil of Anointing?”

“Pretty much.” Hayes said.

“Sorry, but it’s not possible.” she contended.

“You’re aware of Qumran, I assume?”

“Where the Dead Sea Scrolls were found. I did an undergraduate paper on them, re-translating the texts.”

“I know I read it. But it’s the history, not the translation of the texts that’s important here.”
“The history is pretty straightforward. They were discovered in ‘57. Most of the texts were written by Essenic Jews, but just before the revolt the other sects sent their documents to Qumran for safekeeping.” she said.

“And among the texts that were not Essenic was the Copper Scroll.” Hayes said.

Jenna nodded her head. “The Copper Scroll is just a laundry list of items— gold and silver mostly— things that were hidden around Jerusalem before the Revolt. It’s a valuable piece, but if the scroll revealed the hiding place of any major artifacts you can bet it would be locked away. It’s on display at the museum in Amman now, I think.”

“It’s a pesher.” Hayes said solemnly.

Had anyone but Hayes made such a suggestion she would have laughed out loud. As it was, she could only stare at the man in silence, waiting for him to make sense of a senseless statement. Many of the documents unearthed in Qumran were peshers: multi-leveled stories that tell one tale on the surface, but carry a hidden tale beneath and between the words. But Jenna was very aware that the Copper Scroll could hold no such hidden information. There was no narrative text in which to hide a pesher tale.

“If there’s a pesher in the Copper Scroll, it’s the best one ever.” she said finally.

The edge of Hayes’ lips threatened a smile, but he suppressed it. “It was discovered in the late 1970s.” he explained. “It’s based loosely on a thematic pesher, but far more clever. The authors were not trying to hide the information behind a storyline or a code. They were hiding a secret within the scroll itself.”

“I’ve been all through it.” Jenna said. “I’m not sure where you’re going with this, but I’d stake my reputation that there is simply no pesher there.”

“The Pharisees who wrote the Copper Scroll were trying to hide their most valuable items.” Hayes said. “Israel was going into a war they knew they would lose. They needed to ensure their culture and religion were not destroyed by Rome’s army. Qumran was remote, but they could not take the risk that it too wouldn’t fall. The valuables you see listed on the scroll are legitimate artifacts, hidden in Jerusalem. But it was the Greek text— the mysterious three-lettered anomaly in an otherwise Mishnaic Hebrew— that hid their greatest treasures.”

“There’s been a lot of speculation about that.” Jenna said. “Why devout Jews would have included random Greek letters on such an important document. It points to something, but I could never figure out what.”

“The Greek was only superficial; a way to hide the real information. It wasn’t until the key to the pesher was found among fragments in the Qumran scriptorium that we even had a hint at what it was. The key simply read ‘Bitter water, bitter wine’. Given the obvious religious connotations, it took a long while before anyone got around to taking it literally.”

“Literally?” Jenna asked.

“Out of the hundreds of scrolls and parchments found in Qumran, the Copper Scroll is unique in that it is the only document written on copper. Everything else is parchment or papyrus. Have you ever stopped to consider why this is?”

“It’s always been assumed that they wanted this scroll to last.” Jenna said.

“Have you ever seen this done anywhere else? Using copper as a scroll to record a list for safekeeping?”

Jenna thought about it for a moment. She hadn’t.

“The pesher is not in the words or the Greek lettering. It’s in the copper itself.” Hayes continued. “Most peshers require an added letter or sequence of letters to be placed in the text at the appropriate place. Vermes and others working on the scrolls assumed that the Greek was merely a transliteration of a pesher key … a code that would show where the additions were supposed to go. As it turned out, the Greek letters were simply the author’s way of telling us where the hidden information was.”

“And the water and wine?” Jenna asked.

“Bitter water, bitter wine.” Hayes stressed. “That was one of the most clever aspects of this whole mystery… they made the pesher so obvious that everyone missed it. In fact, when it was posited, the professor in question was ridiculed for it.”

“That professor being…?” Jenna asked, a sudden suspicion in her voice.

“Me.” Hayes admitted.

“No offense, but you don’t seem to be the hands-on, mystery-solving type.”

“I was young and ambitious once upon a time.” Hayes explained. “Fresh out of Oxford with Ph. D. and an attitude. Like anyone trying to make their mark in the field back then, I headed straight for Israel. After a bit of groveling, I was given the job of chronicling the fragments and scrolls coming out of Qumran.”

“That’s a rather prestigious job for someone who’d just gotten their PhD.” Jenna observed.

“Not by 1971 it wasn’t. The bulk of the find was unearthed in 1957. The scriptorium was discovered a few years later. By 1971 the vast majority of the scrolls had already been removed, and we were dealing with fragments sifted out of sand. No one was likely to make a career based on fragments.”

“But you did?”

Hayes smiled. “Seems odd to me all these years later, but I guess I did. It certainly opened doors that would never have been opened otherwise.”

“And the ‘bitter water’?”

“The literal water sitting next to where the scroll was buried; the Dead Sea. From there solving for the ‘bitter wine’ took a bit more time.”

“A mulled wine?” Jenna guessed.

“Vinegar” Hayes corrected. “I’d worked out the basic idea back at Qumran, but it didn’t mean anything to me. It was two years later, when I was working for the Dominicans in Jerusalem, that I had my eureka moment. I was in the East Quarter, watching the curator of one of the shops clean some copper urns. I was amazed to see how they went from dull to shiny in one swipe of his cloth. I asked what he was using and he said it was ‘just vinegar and water’. My heart leapt.”

“A cleaning solution?” Jenna mused.

“It’s basically a mild acid wash. It turns out that mixing saltwater with vinegar creates sodium acetate and hydrogen chloride. Try it on an old penny sometime.” Hayes explained.

“You wanted to acid wash one of the oldest scrolls in existence?” Jenna choked.

“Basically, yes. But it took year and a half to get anyone to listen to me. By then, most of the initial excitement of the scrolls had died down, so there was more access to the people in charge of the project. I expounded my theory to dozens of scholars before the first of them started to consider the possibility that there might be something to it.”

“And they allowed you to use an acid wash on the Copper Scroll?” Jenna reiterated.
“Me? No. I was a peon at the time. But my theory was intriguing enough that someone along the line thought it was worth investigating. I wasn’t there when they made the initial tests, but I was told within days that they had found something using the technique. I was later informed that the pesher letters had actually been imprinted in Hebrew under the Greek, then covered in a thin alloy that was buffed to resemble copper. The acid stripped the alloy, revealing the full pesher.”

“Why haven’t I seen this?” Jenna asked.

“The resulting pesher gave the locations of the most holy artifacts in Israeli history— relics that people like the Temple Mount Faithful would be willing to go to war over. Israel did not want to risk a full-blown religious riot. Photos were taken and records kept, but in the end the decision was made to have the metallurgists at the University of Haifa redo the original alloy façade. It’s actually quite noticeable if you know what you’re looking for.”

“And you? You were never credited with the find?”

“I was given credit by those who knew of it, but there was obviously no public recognition. Instead, I was given preferential treatment in other works over the years, more than enough to make up for this one omission in my CV.”

“You said the people who attacked the Mount had the Holy Oil. I assume that they somehow have access to this information?” Jenna asked.

“They have the oil, but I don’t think they have a record of everything that was on the Copper Scroll. It’s likely that they found it by following rumors from one of the few who did know.”

Jenna thought about this. “So, they’ve taken the Temple Mount, they have the Oil of Anointing, and you figure they have enough know-how to anoint a new king. So why are we discussing this?”

“They’ve not got everything they need. It’s the power of the Temple that they require now... the heart and soul of the Tabernacle.” Hayes said.

“You’re talking about the Ark of the Covenant.” Jenna guessed.

“The Prime Minister is of the opinion that if these people get their hands on it and show the world that it was returned to the Temple, there would be no stopping all-out war. I agree with him. As it is, the Golden Dome and the Al Aqsa Mosque are under attack, and the League of Arab Nations will not stand for it. Thus far we have been lucky, but if there is the slightest chance that these people know the location of the Ark, it has to be retrieved and secured before they get their hands on it.”

“If they could have gotten the Ark, I would assume that they would have done so before taking the Temple Mount.” Jenna offered. “I assume the location of the Ark was on the list found on the scroll?” she asked.

“Yes.” Hayes said.

“Which Ark did the scroll reference?” Jenna asked, suddenly realizing the logistics. “The original was either taken by Sheba to Ethiopia, or by Cyrus to Babylon. The Ark that sat in the Second Temple was a replica.”

“Unfortunately for us, the scroll listed only one Ark and did not explain which it was. It was buried beneath the Temple Mount in a sealed chamber. The Knesset is working on the assumption that whether or not the attackers know it, at least one Ark is within their grasp. The risk of them finding it is too grave. I am afraid that they plan to deal with them accordingly.”
“They’re going to attack rather than risk having them find it.” Jenna surmised.
Hayes nodded. “Which will lead to a populist uprising by Israelis against their own government. Unless a bloodbath can be averted, Israel stands a good chance of falling to either their own people or the Arab states.”

“So? What are we supposed to do about any of this?”

“We’re the ones who are going to stop it.” Hayes said.

Jenna’s mouth attempted several responses, but the only one that succeeded in finding volume was “How?”

“We have about 72 hours to show the Israeli government that the Ark is not on the Temple Mount. If we can do this, the Israelis don’t attack, the people on the Mount will have to surrender without manifesting their messiah, and Iran and Egypt will stand down. Crisis averted.” Hayes said.

“But you just said that it was on the Temple Mount.”

“It was. But it’s not anymore.”

“And you know this because…?” Jenna asked.

“Because we stole it.” Hayes explained.

*****

Jenna sat very still while Hayes refilled his coffee cup. By the time he returned she had come to terms with most of what he’d told her, but not well.

“I was part of the team that excavated the Temple Mount site back in 1981.” he said. “We were following the directions given by the Copper Scroll. Our work orders said we were civil engineers installing supports for the archaic structure. It was enough to keep the Waqf at bay for three weeks in July.”

“So you found it?”

“Oh, we found it. In point of fact, we found it within a week of starting the project. It’s amazing how easy these archaeological digs become when you have a map that pinpoints exactly where you’re supposed to look.”

“What happened?”

Hayes laughed to himself. “Well, it wasn’t anything that Indiana Jones would be proud of, I can tell you that much. When we got to the chamber everything was exactly where it was supposed to be, including the Ark. So there we were, staring at one of history’s greatest secrets and we all had the same reaction; ‘Now what?’ We couldn’t declare the find because we weren’t supposed to be digging there in the first place.”

“So you stole it?”

“We decided to safeguard it, or so we told ourselves. We knew that revealing the find would cause all kinds of havoc internationally, but we couldn’t just leave it there for the Waqf to find, or worse, the messianics. So we moved it.”

“To where?”

“That I can’t tell even you. Not yet. In the days to come a lot of this is going to be coming to the surface, but for now I still have an oath or two I have to abide by.” he said.

“So the game plan is for you and I to go to Israel today, with no forewarning, and explain to the Knesset that you stole the Ark. Any particular reason you want me with you on this trip? My salary doesn’t afford me much in the way of bail money.”

“I was assuming that you would kill me if I didn’t invite you.” Hayes said dryly. A smile touched the edge of his lips, a welcome bit of his normal self bleeding in through the misery. “Truth be told, though, once we’re in Israel I’d feel a lot more comfortable having someone I trust doing any translation that comes up.”

“And the Ph.D?” she asked.

“You need the credentials, and I need you. The committee signed off on you as soon as I told them where I was going and what was happening. You could even get tenure out of this if it bankrolls back the way the dean thinks it will. He’s already talking to every major Judaic grant organization in North America.”

“That leaves the issue of the armed men in the outer office.” Jenna pointed out.

“Mossad.” Hayes explained. “We will have our own private security for the next week or so. Martin will be with me. David will be your escort. Where you go, he goes.”

“The Israeli Secret Service didn’t have a trained killer that was female?” Jenna asked.
“They did.” Hayes replied “But they all seem to be busy escorting Madonna.”

Jenna couldn’t think of anything to add to that.

*****

As major upheavals go, her day went rather well. While Hayes stressed over every detail of the itinerary, Jenna had the luxury of just following orders and being where she was supposed to be at the appointed time. Her only chore was to pick up her passport from Doris, which turned out to be every bit as agonizing as thought it would be. Jenna waited for the better part of half an hour while the woman rambled on the phone about the importance of organization “in situations like these…” Doris had used the term no less than ten times while Jenna listened.

“Wait one sec… I seem to have someone hovering over me.” Doris finally said to her caller. She covered the mouthpiece and glared at Jenna.

“What do you need, Jenna?” Doris demanded, her voice sounding more like a cross kindergarten teacher than a receptionist.

“My passport.” Jenna reminded her.

“Oh yes… that.” she said, drawing the small booklet from the drawer in front of her. She handed it to Jenna by the corner, holding it out as one would a soiled diaper. Jenna took it wordlessly and made an attempt at a quick getaway. She was halfway to the door before Doris spoke.

“It’s not the most flattering picture of you, is it?” she asked. “But that’s the problem with digital cameras, isn’t it? You can’t hide all your flaws behind lenses and lighting effects. Just click and all your wrinkles and the little hairs on your lip are there for the whole world to see.”

Jenna spun on her heels, quite ready to explain by comparison the difference between her idea of attractive and Doris’.

“I’m sorry, dean, that was that Jenna Vaas girl again. It’s just one thing after another with her. Seems she’s leaving with Hayes, and just now decided that she’d need a passport. I had it here waiting of course.” Doris said into the phone.

For a moment Jenna had a vivid mental image of grabbing the phone, but let it go. She had much bigger things to deal with today. Doris was smiling as she stormed out.

Her newfound shadow dutifully followed when she left the main office. She’d never had a bodyguard before and, as far as she could tell, never would again. There was a childish sense of feeling important that came with being guarded, and she decided it was worth the inconvenience of being followed constantly.

When she reached her office she turned to address the man. He was taller than she’d thought. She put him at six foot, give or take and inch. His hair was a dark brown, like her own. She guessed that he kept it shorter than the military required to keep the thick curls at bay. His skin was tanned, but not dark. Had she not known he was Mossad, she would have guessed him to be Mediterranean, possibly Maltese.

“Hi.” she said awkwardly. “I guess you know, but I’m Jenna Vaas.”

“Yes, Professor Vaas, I’ve been assigned to escort you for the next week or so.” the man replied.
It was the first time anyone had ever addressed her as ‘Professor Vaas’. That alone would have made her day, but the way he’d rolled the ‘v’ gave it a richness that she was unaccustomed to. She had a very real suspicion that she was blushing.

“I am David Jenson. If you require anything at any time, I’ll be on hand.” he said. She couldn’t help noticing the same rolling of the consonant on the ‘q’.

Jenna smiled and reached out to shake his hand. “I’m not sure I need a bodyguard, but I’m happy to have the company.” she said. She could feel the hard metal of a wedding ring on his finger, and found herself hoping it was as fake as the name he had just given her.

Two hours later, Jenna was on a plane over the Atlantic when it occurred to her that she hadn’t turned off the alarm clock next to her bed. Tomorrow morning it would sound at exactly 6:30 am, and would continue to do so until she hit the OFF button. As she had no idea how many days it would be until that happened, her neighbors were not going to be impressed.

Chapter Two

Israeli Air, Flight 7628


Hayes had become his usual self once they were on the plane. He had been a professor for far too many years to remember the normal give and take of information, so Jenna sat and listened as he bounced from phone call to e-mail; dutifully updating her on the progress with each new bit of information he gleaned.

“We refuel in Frankfurt in 7 hours, then on to Ben Gurion. Total flight time is about 14 hours.” Hayes said, returning to his laptop. She waited for him to speak again, but after a moment she realized that he was again lost in whatever data was flashing from the screen. When he hadn’t looked up for several minutes she decided to stretch her legs and familiarize herself with the plane.

David appeared out of nowhere as soon as she stood.

“Will we be moving, ma’am?” he asked. Jenna smiled at the question.

“Sorry. Yes, I was thinking of moving. I was going to go see if they had some sort of pub or service area… Unless you feel there’s a security threat?” she said lightly.

David smiled. “There are no threats.” he said. “One does not get aboard Israeli diplomatic flights without a full security check.” The accent was there, but almost imperceptible. She wondered if suppressing it was part of the man’s training.

“I didn’t go through any security measures.” Jenna countered.

“Not that you are aware of.” David said cryptically. Jenna raised an eyebrow but said nothing more of it.

“OK then.” Jenna continued. “I may not need a bodyguard on board, but I could use a guide. Which way to food?”

“The plane has both a lounge and a galley.” he said.

“Good, someone who knows where I’m going.” she said. “Lead the way.”

*****
The plane was an Airbus A330, converted for use by diplomas and other dignitaries. Walking the aisle she was impressed by how much room the plane actually had when the airline wasn’t trying to fit 130 seats into one section.

“This is the press room.” David explained as they moved through the first divider. A few of the male passengers lifted their eyes as Jenna passed, though not for professional reasons. She and David crossed the room to the small dividing port on the left.

“And this is the galley.” David said, drawing back the curtain.

Jenna had expected something akin to the serving areas she had seen on other flights. This was entirely different. Each of the dozen or so dining tables were adorned with linen napkins, real silverware, and lead crystal glass. A variety of flower arrangements sat as centerpieces, the different fragrances mixing in the air as she walked in. To her right was a service area. To her left, a large oak door.

“Men’s washroom.” David explained. “The woman’s is on the other side of the lounge.” Jenna followed his gaze and saw a matching oak door some forty feet ahead.

“They don’t seem to be overly worried about bathroom lineups.” Jenna said.

“The diplomatic corps prefer quality over quantity in all things.” David offered.

Jenna turned to look at him “Was that a joke?” she asked, surprised.

“Your Professor Hayes has asked that I try not to scare you. He suggested that I be more familiar when speaking with you.” David said.

“Familiar?” she repeated. She was not good at innuendo but hoped the attempt was friendly enough to be demure.

“He suggested that I not stand on formalities.” David explained. “If you would rather I keep to my duties I am most willing to—“

“No, no…” Jenna interrupted. “I’m going to be up to my neck in formalities. I’d welcome having one person around who isn’t caught up in it. Please, continue the tour. I’m enjoying it. You were explaining that diplomats prefer quality toilettes over having enough toilettes. Is there some protocol for dealing with lineups then?”

“Well,” David said, a sheepish grin suddenly appearing on his face. “I doubt there is anyone more qualified to hold it in than a bunch of guys who make their living by being full of—.”

“Not that familiar.” Jenna interrupted, smiling all the same.

Past the dining area was an open transition to the lounge. The lighting was more subdued, which made it treacherous to navigate heels from the tiled dining area to the carpeted darkness. Jenna stumbled briefly, David’s hand instantly clasping her arm and righting her.

“Thanks.” she replied, straightening herself.

“Body guard.” he said, smiling. “It’s in the job description.” When he let go Jenna found herself wondering if he had held on a second longer than he needed to.

As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she realized that there were more people around her than she had first thought. Small clusters of them filled the alcoves, their tables rife with fancy drinks and classified documents. The bar itself was against the wall, and divided the seating port and aft. They made their way past it to an empty booth in the far corner. A young woman named Deborah arrived at their table a moment later, brightly asking what they wished to order.

“I was thinking of something with a bit of a kick.” Jenna said to David.

“We have a variety of mixed drinks.” Deborah explained. “Our house specialty is Scottish coffee.”

“OK… what’s in a Scottish coffee?” Jenna asked.

David interrupted. “As your duly appointed bodyguard I have to intervene and suggest the Irish. Scottish Coffee has a tendency to kill people.”

“Irish it is then.” Jenna agreed.

For the next hour and a half Jenna and David talked about their lives, the plane, and the effect of two Irish coffees. She’d been a tad disappointed to learn that David really was married, but enjoyed hearing the stories he offered of his life in Tel Aviv with two children and a wife named Marta. In turn, Jenna had told him everything there was to know about her life up to this point, complete with intimate details of her early dreams to be an actress. This naturally led to explaining how her dream had morphed into studying theology when her mother was killed in a car accident. She had been only eighteen at the time, and the loss had left a lot of questions in her. Some she had answered over the years, many others she was still working on. Still, talking about it all with David seemed to give her a warm catharsis.

During the lull between topics, Jenna sat staring at the remnants of her Irish coffee. This is one of the good moments, she thought to herself. This is why we endure… to get to moments like this.
It was the last of those simple moments that she would ever know.

*****

She awoke with a start, still in the dimness of the plane’s lounge. She had no memory of having drifted off, and no concept of how much time had passed. She was still wide-eyed and unfocused when Deborah stepped up.

“Hey… it’s OK.” the woman said. “You dozed off. Your friend said to tell you that he’s just gone back to check in with some professor and that he’ll return shortly.”

“How… how long was I out?” Jenna stammered.

“Only about an hour. Don’t worry about it. Happens all the time. The seats here are more comfortable than the compartments, so people wander in when they want a quick nap.”

Jenna was unconvinced, but thankful for the woman’s nicety. She straightened her blouse and sat up.

“Would you like a real coffee this time?” Deborah offered.

“Yes, please. And… thank you.” Jenna replied.

Deborah smiled and went to fetch the coffee. Moments later she returned with a large mug, cream, sugar, and a cloth napkin. Jenna smiled politely as she laid each item out on the table in from of her.

“Let me know if you need anything else.” Deborah said, and was gone.

Jenna had added the cream and sugar and was stirring her coffee before she noticed that she was not alone. In the dim light, she had not immediately seen the man in the high-backed leather chair opposite her. She froze, suddenly aware that he must have been there, watching, as she slept. She dropped the spoon into the coffee with a loud clang.

“This time it’s going to be different.” the man said without prelude. “As are you. Let’s have a look.” The accent was definitely not Middle-Eastern. Jenna couldn’t place it.

“Excuse me?” Jenna said, her eyes moving from the man to the doorway, then back. David would ‘return shortly’, Deborah had said.

The man ignored Jenna’s obvious discomfort. He was looking her up and down as one might a horse before buying it.

“Well done.” he said cheerily. “Good frame. No deformities. I quite like the hair actually. And…” he said, looking closer to confirm his suspicion. “You seem to have all your limbs.”

“I… yes. Yes, I have all my limbs. Now if you don’t mind I am waiting for someone, and he won’t be too happy to find you talking with me.” Jenna said. She felt cheap mentioning David, but there was obviously something wrong with this guy.

“Yes, the bodyguard. I’d forgotten about him.” The man said, leaning forward into the dim light. “I was thinking about that… a body guard. Wouldn’t the name imply that he should be guarding you when you’re dead? I mean, a body is a body, and as such can be lifeless. Not that he would do much good once you were dead, but you get the idea. It seems… quixotic.”

“Quixotic?” Jenna repeated.

“OK, not quite quixotic. But I heard the word from a barista in Soho and I’ve been anxious to use it.” the man said. He then set to repeating the word over to himself, putting the emphasis on different syllables as if trying it out. “Quix-O-tic… QUIX-o-tic… quix-o-TIC.”

In the light Jenna could see some of the man’s features. Present circumstance aside, he was not what she would have guessed to be a troubled soul. In fact, he was beautiful. His skin was a light brown; she guessed Indian with Caucasian influence. His hair was long and jet black, flowing neatly over a white silk tunic. A powerful musculature moved strong and firm beneath the fabric. But what struck her most about him was his face. It was absolutely smooth, almost feminine. She blinked, trying to fight a sudden urge reach out and touch the softness of his cheeks. They seemed somehow perfect; irresistible.

Her hand was actually moving of its own accord before she caught herself, pulling it back with a mixture of embarrassment and disappointment. Realizing that he had likely seen the gesture, she tried to apologize and excuse herself, but failed. Seconds before the words were to leave her lips, her eyes fell on his. For a brief second she was held fast by the icy blue colors that swirled within them. Then, as she looked deeper, her world crumbled.

Until just that moment she had never been convinced of the existence of a soul. She had played with the idea— debated it in class and in the student lounge— but she had never been convinced that there was a part of her that existed separate from her body. She had tried, lying in bed at night next to Jim, to find a ‘soul mate’. She’d held him inside her as close as she possibly could, projecting every ounce of her inner self toward him in the hope that he could touch a part of her that was real. Each time they were together she’d try to explain it to him, only to be frustrated at how the flesh was always in the way of the connection she craved.

Now, as her eyes fixed on the stranger, she could feel the tangible substance of the soul within her leap at his presence. The deepest part of her being, the place where she had given up ever being known, was being laid bare in front of him. He could see her, really see her. After a lifetime of trying to make connections with those she loved, a total stranger was casually touching every sadness she had ever felt, every loathsome thought that had ever plagued her in the wee hours of the morning.

Everything she was opened to him without warning. Totally exposed, she hung there, waiting to see what he would make of the deepest core of her being. If he laughed, it would destroy her. If he smiled, it would echo to the heart of her. After an eternity, she finally began to feel him moving within her. Soft words she couldn’t understand began wiping away pain and guilt she had no idea she was harboring. When she drew her next breath she was free of them. She was… clean. There was a moment beyond intimacy when all of who she was nestled into him, warming to the essence of the stranger. They were together, she in him, he in her. Then, without warning, he was gone.

As the blue of his eyes subsided, Jenna could hear voices calling to her. They were distant at first, but growing louder. She fought against them, trying to filter out the world around her so she could find her way back to the blue eyes that had held her so deeply. It didn’t work. Despite her best efforts, the world was coming back.

“Jenna? Jenna, can you hear me?” David’s voice was saying.

She was alone again, trapped in flesh, staring out at a cold and profane world.

“Are you OK?” David asked.

Jenna met David’s eyes for the briefest second. He could see her mouth move, as if ready to speak.

“You passed out.” David said gently.

Part of her mind wanted to tell him that it was just the effects of the alcohol. She wanted to smile and be embarrassed so they could all laugh and forget the incident. It wasn’t until Jenna opened her mouth to speak that she understood that the part of her mind that wanted these things was no longer in charge.

It was the strangest sensation— watching as her own lips moved air through them, producing words and sounds she had never intended or known. Distantly, she became aware that she was screaming. Some raw part of her that had lain dormant was awakening, and would not be swayed. David tried but failed to comfort her. Deborah too came running, but could only watch helplessly as Jenna’s body was wracked by deep, soul-wrenching sobs that echoed through the plane.
Words that Jenna had never heard before were screaming from her lips, demanding succor that no mortal could offer. In time she collapsed, vaguely aware that David was carrying her.

Chapter Three

Bill Hayes, Israeli Air, Flight 7628, Two Hours Later

Jenna had bordered on mania when David returned with her, and it had taken the better part of an hour for the sedative Hayes had given her to kick in. Now, thankfully, the woman was resting comfortably in the alcove opposite. David was keeping a close watch on her, which left Hayes free to figure out why this was happening. He’d learned many years ago that there were no coincidences in life.

“I need to know what this is about.” Hayes said into his cell phone.

Across the aisle David looked up at the sound of Hayes’ voice, but quickly realized that the professor was on the phone. He settled back in, intently watching Jenna for any signs of distress.

Hayes had become adept at this kind of subterfuge since the small, portable phones first become popular. As a rule, he hated them, and would never actually own one that worked. The battery in the one he now held had died months ago, and there was nothing in Hayes that would mourn it. Still, it served its purpose.

“I have no idea.” Hayes continued speaking into the phone. “I was rather expecting you to have the answers.”

*****

Hayes had told Jenna as much as she needed to know about the day they’d found the Ark. What he had not told her were the extraordinary circumstances under which it had happened.

They had gotten the go-ahead from the Dominicans for the dig, though none of his superiors had any faith in their success. If they had, they would have been there themselves. As it was, the Israeli government was informed and, although complicit, no official was to be directly involved. If Hayes and the others were found, the blame was to fall on the five upstart researchers.

They had used the excuse of adding the supports, exactly as he had told Jenna. Once inside, however, it became obvious that if any tunnels had existed under the Mount, they were hidden by years of neglect and decay. The location given by the Copper Scroll was far deeper than the small passageway they had made in the foundations. To go any further would have required years of careful archeology and manpower. The project was an immediate failure.

With no great finds to be made, three of his fellows left the first day. Only Hayes and an American Jew named Joe Rosen remained, scraping through the dust and fallen brickwork for anything that might prove noteworthy. Nothing did.

It was at the end of the fourth day, after the engineers left to prepare for the Sabbath, that Hayes’ life was changed forever. Rosen had stayed with him to help photograph the interior of the dig. He was a secular Jew in an orthodox city, so he welcomed the chance to hide from the rituals. The half-bottle of Manishevitz he carried was the only Judaic custom that Rosen adhered to religiously. Hayes judged by the man’s stagger that it was not his first bottle of the day.

They entered the passageway in near total darkness. When they reached the last stretch of the dig, Hayes grasped at the murk for the extension cord, following it to the base of the light. It clicked on, creating a halo in an otherwise black tunnel. Setting the photography equipment on the small wooden table, he waited while his eyes adjusted to the room. Rosen did likewise, his hands now free to return to the wine. He took a long swig, then held the bottle out to Hayes.

“Swig?” he offered.

“Later,” Hayes replied, looking at the wine. “And from a different bottle. My god, man, does everything you eat get backwashed?”

“I haven’t eaten all day.” Rosen declared.

“That is not a comfort. I’ll pass.” Hayes said, staring at the various bits floating in the bottle.

“In this heat you’ll be begging for a drink in no time, and I will have the pleasure of explaining that I am now out.” Rosen said, attempting to drain the last of the bottle. There was more left in it than he had anticipated, and he coughed trying to finish it. Spittle and wine ran off his face, staining his tunic.

“I assume you’ll be licking up the rest of that now?” Hayes asked as he unpacked the photography equipment.

“It takes more than one bottle to get me licking myself.” Rosen said, suppressing a faint nausea that was welling up.

“Tell you what… When we get this done I’ll buy the next bottle. And dinner. You’re going to die a young man if you don’t start eating something.” Hayes said.
“Yeah… well. Try finding a place that’s open on a Sabbath eve in Jerusalem. Even the damned bootlegger’s closed.”

Hayes was genuinely surprised. “There’s a bootlegger in Jerusalem?” Hayes asked.
“Bill….” Rosen said in lieu of an answer.

“I know, I have to learn to get out more. I just figured that if there was ever a city that didn’t have a bootlegger, it would be Jerusalem.”

“Bill…” Rosen said again, his voice now low and steady. It was enough to get Hayes to look up from his work. When he did, he saw that Rosen was nodding toward the dimness behind him. He followed Rosen’s gaze to the alcove where the tunnel widened some ten feet beyond. The dim electric light was just enough to illuminate the outline of a man leaning casually against the wall. Hayes looked back at Rosen, who gave him an ‘I don’t know’ shrug.

Aware that he had been noticed, the figure spoke.

“Humanity seems to spend half their existence burying their past and the other half digging it up.” he said.

“We have permission to be here.” Rosen answered quickly. “We’re with the…” He stopped, realizing that he had no idea how to finish the sentence.

“Repair crew.” Hayes finished for him. “We’re from the university, making sure the workers aren’t touching anything of historic value.”

“This is Zion.” the figure pointed out. “Everything here has historical value.”

“You are of course correct.” Hayes said, straining his eyes at the darkness to get a better view of the man. “Which is why the state hires men like us to make sure none of it is damaged during renovations. I am Professor Bill Hayes, and this is my colleague Joseph Rosen. And you are…”

“I suppose you could say that I am the curator here.” the man said. His voice was simple but strong.

“I wasn’t aware that a curator has been assigned to this part of the grounds.” Hayes said, knowing full well that no such post existed.

“I assume you have some sort of credentials?” Rosen challenged from behind.
Hayes winced at the sound of it, shooting Rosen a look of annoyance. Diplomacy had always been antithetical to Rosen’s nature.

“Three religions are fighting to be the stewards of this place.” the figure explained, pushing himself from the wall and standing straight. “They forget that they are only stewards. Authority here comes from elsewhere.”

The darkness between them was not absolute, but it was enough to veil the details of the stranger. Hayes could see, for instance, that the man was not carrying a rifle. What he could not see was whether the man had explosives taped to his chest.

“My I ask why you are here?” Hayes said. “As near as I know, we’ve been as respectful as possible to both Jewish and Islamic concerns in our work. If there is something you feel we may have neglected we would be more than happy to listen.”

He could make out something of the man’s face in the darkness. There was something odd about it, but it was still too obscured.

“If you are repairing the wall, then I would offer no comment. Your men seem to be doing a fine job.” the man said.

“Thank you…” Hayes replied.

“However, if you are attempting to retrieve the Ark of the Covenant from its sacred resting place within these walls, I would say that you are doing a rather pitiable job.” the figure explained.

Hayes stiffened. Their real objective here was known to fewer than ten people, all of whom he knew and trusted. Still, there had been a breach. Who it was and what it meant were unclear, but the fact that this man knew their business could only mean trouble. The next few minutes— the minutes that changed both Hayes’ and Rosen’s lives forever— happened quickly.

Rosen had also understood the inherent threat in this man’s presence. Unlike Hayes, though, Rosen’s response to danger always leaned toward the pugilistic. Hayes was just opening his mouth to form some kind of denial when Rosen leapt past him, quickly closing the distance between them and the stranger. A stream of obscenities echoed off the ancient walls.

Hayes had only traveled a half dozen feet before Rosen was on the stranger, fists flying. In the darkness ahead Hayes heard a yelp, then a low, guttural thud. Before he could get close enough to intervene, Rosen was on the floor, writhing in pain and reiterating every curse he could had ever known. The tunnel exploded in light. The stranger stood at the center of the illumination, his features now readily apparent. Hayes’ feet hit the ground like wet cement, his body coming to a complete stop. Despite Rosen’s cries, Hayes could only stare, transfixed by the majesty of what he was seeing.

There was eerie stillness about the stranger’s face. He looked like a statue in chiseled stone; a mimicry of human life that fooled no one. Seeing Hayes, it turned its attention toward him. The smile it wore would have passed for warmth on human lips.

“He fell.” the being said, referring to Rosen. Hayes’ comrade remained on the floor, wringing his hands in pain. The unearthly events unfolding just above him had done nothing to quell his litany.

“You’re…” was all Hayes could think to say.

“If you are going to say God, I am not God.” the being said.

Hayes found himself focusing on the long, brown locks of hair. Even these had the same quality of motionlessness, as if unaffected by the environment around them. They stirred when he stirred, but otherwise sat with the same eerie stillness. Only the light around him moved, tracing trails around his head and arms in large, arching patterns. In a moment of insight Hayes suddenly realized how this light might have been perceived two thousand years ago.

“You’re... an angel?” Hayes asked.

“I am His Voice on Earth.”

“The Lesser Yahweh…” Hayes muttered, remembering a reference from the Babylonian Talmud.

“Humanity have given me many names. That is one of them, though not one I am comfortable with.” he said.

Rosen had crawled over to the edge of a chair and was pulling himself up on it as they spoke.

“Metatron...” Hayes sighed.

“As I said, I have many names. Metatron, Sagansagel, Malchut, Jaoel, Atmon…”

“Jackass...” Rosen muttered. Hayes shot an astonished look at his friend.

“What!?!” Rosen said in his defense. “My hand is messed up pretty bad here. I might as well have been punching the goddam wall.”

“Joseph’s temperament is not harsh to me, Bill Hayes.” the angel said, looking at Rosen. “In fact, it’s because of his manner that he’s been chosen for the tasks ahead.”

“You’re kidding?” The words escaped Hayes’ mouth before he’d had a chance to edit them.

“We have much to do, the three of us. But as to your question of names, Bill Hayes, I would prefer that you call me by my fondest name, Idris.” the angel said.

“Idris…” Hayes repeated, trying to place the name. He’d heard it, but was unsure where.
It was Idris, not the scroll, that led them to the Ark. From that day to this, the angel had acted as guide and protector to the relic, and to the two men chosen to guard it. Over the years, Hayes and Rosen had grown distant, though their paths were always to be linked by the secret they protected. In time, both men learned to accept the nature of their calling. For Rosen it had happened the second his fist failed to connect with Idris’ face. For Hayes, it had been a far more painful process.

*****

Hayes' fate turned in 1995 when Emma, his wife of twenty-two years, was diagnosed with heart disease. With advances in transplants and angioplasty, they’d both thought she’d have years. Less than a month later Hayes found her dead on the bathroom floor.
Hayes was beyond mourning. For days he acted on autopilot, tending to the funeral plans and his teaching responsibilities with equal, calm aplomb. Emotionally, though, he was destroyed. Everything he had ever wanted or cared about was contained in the depth of his relationship with Emma. It was cliché, but she really had been his life. She had saved him from the cold, isolated life he’d felt condemned to before they’d met. Now, with her gone, he could feel the weight of the world moving back in on him. He couldn’t make it without her. He wouldn’t.

As he watched her casket being carried from the church, Hayes made the clear and serene decision that he would follow her. He’d go to the reception, accept the condolences of the well-wishers, then go home to their empty house and pour himself a large brandy. Then, sometime before he had to crawl into their bed alone, he would slit his wrists. If the angel showed, he thought, so much the better.

He was at the foot of the church steps when he saw Idris across the street, staring at him with that cold, otherworldly stillness. A palpable hatred rose in him; a loathing he had never known before. Hayes’ eyes locked on Idris’, projecting every bit of the wrath that was rising in him.

Then, as suddenly as he had appeared, Idris was gone.

In his place stood his Emma. Her body, like Idris’, now held the same otherworldly stillness, but it was full. The butchery that the paramedics and coroners had visited on her body was erased. She smiled, and though it had the stiffness of Idris’ realm, it was genuine and joyful. Her lips moved, a tad out of sync with the words that echoed in Hayes’ mind.

Proud of you. she said.

Neither Idris nor Hayes ever mentioned the incident. The next time the angel appeared it was only to inform Hayes of the political changes in Israel after the assassination of Yitzhak Rabin. But Hayes put himself entirely into his work after that, charting the course of human events and watching for signs. Idris was patient in his tutelage, showing Hayes all that he needed to know about the coming End. In time, Hayes came to rely on the angel’s evening visits, always prepared with a list of questions and a ready chessboard.

When the Temple Mount was seized, Idris had shown up to let Hayes know that the Ark was going to be needed. Their plans were finally in motion, though old age and weariness was slowing Hayes’ progress. He had suspected that his diminished stamina was the real reason that Idris had insisted on Jenna coming along. Now, with the Valium finally sedating her, he’d begun to wonder.

“I need to know what this is about.” Hayes said into the dead cell phone. “I need to find out if it has anything to do with what is happening.”

“So do I.” Idris said flatly. He was seated across from Hayes, unseen by the other patrons on the plane.

“I need you to tell me what happened, and how it affects our plans.” Hayes explained.
“I do not know.” Idris said.

“You mean you’re not going to tell me…” Hayes began. He was stopped by the look on Idris’ face. In all the years he had known him, Idris’ expression had remained almost unchanged from the slightly bemused smile he had that first day on the Temple Mount. For the first time Hayes saw that Iris’ brow was slightly furrowed; a frown creasing the edge of his lips. The difference was subtle, but to Hayes it was akin to seeing the Statue of Liberty yawn.

“You’re saying that you really don’t know what’s wrong?” Hayes asked.

“I do not.” Idris said. “I have searched her entire being, and I can see no explanation for her condition.”

“I thought you were the embodiment of all-knowing omniscience.” Hayes said.

“I am the embodiment of His Will, and know all that He wishes. But I do not know all things. Very seldom is an aspect hidden even from me. Jenna seems to be such an aspect.”

“You know the Divine Plan for the universe, but you don’t know why my assistant is ill?”

“Precisely.” Idris said.

“Fine. What do we do with her?”

“If we were intended to do anything, I would know of it. As I do not, it should not distract us. Deal with her health as best you can, but your priority must remain with the terrorists. I will deal with Joseph.”

“I think I have the easier task.” Hayes said.

“I believe you are correct, Bill Hayes.” Idris said, and was gone.

Chapter Four

Joseph Rosen, Des Moines, Iowa October 17, 9:15pm


Constable Ed Wright had been sitting in his car for over three hours. For the last twenty minutes of this, he had been watching Joseph Rosen yell at a tree. Deciding he needed a walk anyway, Ed got out of the car and made his way over to the old man. The guy was harmless enough, but he’d chosen the park in front of the Renaissance Savery for his nightly rant. The victim tree was far enough from the entrance that the hotel hadn’t called it in yet, but it wouldn’t be long.

“Screw you!” Rosen screamed at the tree. Ed strode to within a few yards, then pulled his flashlight.

“That tree done something to you, Mr. Rosen ?” Ed asked.

“Bastard…” Rosen said, spitting at the tree.

The flashlight allowed Ed to make out Rosen’s features. He’d dealt with the man a number of times since starting on the force three years ago, but didn’t know much about him. He did know that the man drank to excess, and occasionally kept the police busy, but never worried,. It usually took only a few words and a ride home to calm him down.
Looking at him now, though, Ed could see that tonight was different. Despite the cursing and the spitting, Rosen wasn’t angry. He was crying. In the halo of the flashlight, Ed could see a steady stream of tears flowing down the old man’s face. His eyes, tired and red, made no attempt to conceal whatever pain it was that haunted him. The old guy didn’t even squint against the glare of the flashlight. He just stared back, making no attempt to disguise his sorrow as anything other than what it was: absolute despair.

“I can’t do it.” Rosen said to the tree.

“Mr. Rosen …” Ed said sternly.

“FINE!” Rosen shouted at the tree. Then, without warning, he spoke again, this time directly to Ed. His voice was controlled, but still pained.

“I understand why you’re here, officer.” Rosen said contritely. “I’m… disturbing the peace.” A sardonic smile touched the edge of his lips. “I’ve had a bit too much to drink and it’s gotten the better of me.” he said, emphasizing the point by producing a bottle of Jack Daniel’s from his coat pocket.

“I’ll walk it off. I’ll be OK, honest.” Rosen said, his voice getting stronger as he spoke. He was almost believable. “I’m done for the night. Honest. I’ll walk it off and be fine by the time I get home.” As proof, Rosen plunged the bottle into one of the municipal garbage cans that ringed the park.

Ed could see that the man was trying to avoid police intervention, and, as long as he wasn’t a threat to anyone, the constable was happy to oblige.

“You go straight home.” Ed said harshly. “If I see you again this evening, I’ll be taking you in.”

The words were straight out of the police handbook.

“Thank you officer.” Rosen said, retreating quickly across the pavement to avoid any second thoughts Ed might have.

The policeman watched as Rosen made a beeline through the park, coming out on Third Street. A minute later, Rosen made a right onto Locust Street and was gone. Ed went back to his car, content that whatever the old man’s problem was, he wouldn’t have to worry about it again.

*****

“Locust Street!” Rosen shouted when the cop was out of sight. “You’ve got the nerve to lead me to Locust Street.” Tears were still rolling down his cheeks, but slower now. “I suppose I should be thankful we don’t have a Kill All Of Humanity Boulevard.”
The patrons coming out of the Civic Center cut Rosen a wide berth.

“You decided to go left on Third.” Idris replied calmly. “Had you gone right, we would be on Walnut Street. That I know of, there has never been a plague of walnuts.”

Rosen stopped, the fury and pain returning to his face. “This can’t happen. You know that, right? This can’t happen...” His hands were shaking uncontrollably now. He drew a deep, sharp breath in an attempt to stop himself from breaking down again.

“It can and is happening, Joseph.” Idris continued. “And you have a rather important role to play in it all.”

“No… I don’t. You can quit saying that right now, because I can’t and I won’t.”
“You can and you will.” Idris replied.

“You have no idea what I am going to do!” Rosen shouted, though his defiance rang hollow. Despite his bravado, Rosen was acutely aware that he had a long track record of being on the wrong side of every argument he and Idris had ever had.

“You need coffee.” Idris said.

Rosen stared at him, his eyes still red and sore.

Idris sighed.

“There is a plan at work, Joseph.” he said kindly. “It is not my plan, and it is not your plan, but it is happening. If you are looking to me for comfort or protection from it, you are looking in the wrong place.”

“But… billions.” Rosen said, his voice now pitching higher with the tightness in the back of his throat.

“Billions more have lived and died waiting for this day to arrive. Whether people live or die in the next few days will matter far less than what they, or you, do in that time.”

“I think you’re right.” Rosen said flatly.

“This is not about my being right or wrong. “ Idris explained. “It merely is. It is His will at work in the world.”

“No… not about that.” Rosen explained, swallowing hard. “That is just bloody insane. You’re right about the coffee. I really need a coffee.” .

“Village Bean or Grounds For?” Idris asked.

“Which is closer?”

“Village Bean, but only by half a block.”

“Village Bean. Which way?”

“About a half mile east, across the bridge.” Idris replied.

Rosen pulled the collar of his jacket over his ears and started walking.

“I hate that bridge.” he said.

“I know.” Idris replied.

“We’re not done with this.” Rosen said.

“I know.”

“And stop calling me Joseph.”

“No.” Idris replied.

*****

It was nearing midnight when they finally got to the door of the café. It would be open for another hour, though the band had already left with most of the patrons. The waitress hurried back to the till from her mopping duties as Rosen reached the counter.

“What can I get you, and I hope it’s not food.” she asked.

“What?” Rosen said.

“It’s late, and that means the last load of dishes is done and most of the food is put away, so if you’re ordering anything other than a cookie I was going say you that you should go somewhere else.” she said.

“I only want a coffee. Large, black.” Rosen replied, spilling change onto the counter.

“Coffee we’ve got.” she said, looking at Rosen, then the coins. “Tell ya what… if you promise to let me get out of here by 1:00, the coffee is on the house. It’s going to get tossed soon anyway.”

“Fine.” Rosen said curtly. He had little regard for teenagers, and even less regard for being treated like a hobo. Still, a free coffee was a free coffee. He fumbled the change back into his pocket, ignoring the cheery smile she offered. Idris watched, silent and invisible.

Over the years Rosen and Idris had developed a rapport in public. Save for the few times when Rosen was too drunk to care, the two would coexist with little if any verbal communication when people were around. The tact was not infallible and, as a result, Rosen had earned himself the reputation of being a miserable old coot that talked to himself. Tonight, however, was less of a problem. The last of the customers left just as they were finding their seats.

“That was rude.” Idris said when they’d settled in.

“I agree. If she hadn’t given me a free coffee I’d have called her on it.”

“You were rude.” Idris said simply.

“Yeah well, it doesn’t matter much when we’re all going to be dead in a couple days, does it?” Rosen said coldly.

“I’d say it matters more.” Idris countered.

“I’d say you had no clue what the hell you’re talking about. Here’s what I don’t get…”

Rosen said, changing the subject. “Pretend you’re all powerful.”

“I am me.” Idris said. Rosen glowered, then continued.

“Ok, pretend you are all-powerful and you’re actually God. You could cure cancer, stop crime, save small furry animals. That sort of thing. But, instead of doing anything to make this hellhole of a planet a better place to be, you decide to slaughter the vast majority of the poor jerks who are just trying to scrape out a life for themselves. Explain to me how this is a divine plan.”

“I think you just answered your own question. It’s a divine plan. Not to be understood by mortals.”

“None of it makes sense!” Rosen shouted, then dropped his voice again. “Remaking the planet is not something an omnipotent God would need to do. That’s how a second grader would do it… just rip up the page and throw it out. Start all over again, ignoring the billions who suffered, died, and are likely to roast in some hell for all eternity because of His bad work. There’s got to be a better way to do things.” Rosen said. The warmth and coffee was doing wonders to help his nerves, but the topic was still emotional.

“There may be another way, but it would not be His way.” Idris explained.

“Then His way is wrong.” Rosen said firmly.

“You don’t even know what His way is. There’s a lot more to it than you understand.”

“Then you damn well better make me understand, because until you do there is no way I am having anything to do with this.”

“I can tell you this much… your part in all this is preordained. I’m just humoring you.” Idris replied.

It was only the memory of his previous attempts that kept Rosen’s fist from swinging.

“You have a package to deliver. It is as simple as that.” Idris tried.

“Except for the part where I die a horrible death as soon as it’s delivered.” Rosen said, the words spitting out of his mouth.

“All this compassion for the state of the world goes out the window when you’re concerned with your own death. That’s what’s really bothering you, isn’t it?”

“If you’re saying that I’m a self-centered asshole, then OK we agree. But the truth is, this even goes beyond my ability to be self-absorbed. We’re talking about the slaughter of billions of human lives, and you’re asking me to be the harbinger of it. I… I can’t do it, Idris. I really can’t.”

“I am not here to force you to do anything.” Idris said. “The truth is, I don’t need to. There’s a reason that you were chosen.”

“Because I’m a miserable bastard?”

“Exactly.” Idris said, laughing. “But I know you better than you know yourself. You’re going to do the right thing. You just need help.”

“Not this time.” Rosen said. “You can talk all you want, but none of it changes the basic fact that I am not prepared to help you slaught—.”

He stopped.

Yet again, Rosen had let the conversation get the better of him. Standing just behind Idris was the waitress. Her face had the familiar look that waitresses and bartenders always have when they realize that the old guy in the corner is talking to himself. When they’d entered the café Rosen took her for the type that might ask him to leave before calling the police. It was time to see if he had been right.

“I’m so sorry.” she said suddenly.

It was a reaction Rosen had never seen before.

“Sorry?” he asked, waiting for the inevitable.

“I…I just heard you talking and I thought… Well, since there was no one else here I assumed you were talking to me so I came over …
”
“It was just me.” Rosen said. “I talk to myself sometimes when I’m tired. It won’t happen again.”

“I just… I... I’m sorry.” was all she could muster. Rosen was getting confused. She didn’t seem frightened by him, but she didn’t seem to be calmed by his excuses either.

“Listen, it’s late.” he said. “ I’m going to head out and let you close up.”

Rosen started to stand, but the girl shrieked as he did. He fell back at the sound of it, his butt hitting the chair hard.

“I’m sorry.” she said again, the words coming out faster now.

“Sorry for what…?” Rosen asked, an annoyance creeping into his voice. He didn’t mind being thrown out, but if this woman kept shrieking like this the police would be here whether she called them or not.

She backed up to the next table, her lips still mouthing the words I’m sorry over and over.

“What the hell..?” Rosen asked, more to himself than her.

The thought of just bolting out the door was appealing, but her position at the next table put her directly between him and the front door. He couldn’t leave without moving straight toward her, and the girl looked like she’d scream blue bloody murder if he tried. Rosen stayed seated, wide-eyed and utterly at a loss. Dumbly, he looked to Idris for a cue.

“Did I forget to mention that she can see me?” Idris said calmly.

Rosen was not used to moments of clarity, but this was one of them. He had grown accustomed to the preternatural glow that surrounded Idris. He’d learned years ago to ignore the weird stillness of his form and the faint gold that shone from his eyes. Even the bits of light that darted about the room occasionally had become mere annoyances. It was all just ‘Idris’, the bane of his existence. But seeing it all reflected in the eyes of this young girl reminded him how frightening a visage Idris could be— how absolutely unprepared the average human was for the intrusion of a divine being into their night shift at a coffee shop. The girl was absolutely terrified.

“Oh for Christ’s sake...” Rosen said, leaping from his chair. The girl yelped, but he ignored it. Instinctively, he placed himself between Idris and the girl, blocking most of her view of him.

“It’s alright…” Rosen said, trying to get her attention back from the sight behind him. “It’s OK. Honest it’s OK.”

“I should… I should be….” she stammered.

Rosen suspected she was slipping into shock.

“Listen to me.” Rosen shouted. Her eyes darted to him briefly, then back at Idris. Rosen moved closer, blocking more of her view and seizing her shoulders. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“…Ellen.”

Her eyes were impossibly wide.

“Look, Ellen, I promise you there’s nothing to be afraid of. Trust me. If there were, I’d be the first guy out the door.”

She was biting her bottom lip now. There were no tears, but Rosen was unsure if this was a good sign or a bad sign.

“It’s…”

“He’s real, but he’s not a threat.” Rosen assured her. The thought of police coming in at exactly this second seemed all too real in his mind.

“Is it… friendly?” the girl asked.

There were a lot of things Rosen might have expected her to say, but that wasn’t one of them. She’d sounded like a small child asking about a strange dog. He found himself searching for the most comforting answer he could find. Eventually, though, his nature won out.

“Actually, he’s kind of an asshole.” Rosen said.

Idris stood, his form filling the back wall of the café. Turning toward the two mortals, he dwarfed Rosen’s attempt to block Ellen’s view. She could only stare as Rosen let go of her arms to confront the angel. It was Idris that spoke next.

“And you have all the couth of a pack of wild boars.” he said. “This is how you run to the girl’s rescue?”

“She wouldn’t need rescuing if you hadn’t decided to scare the hell out of her.” Rosen shouted. “As a matter of fact, why the hell is it my responsibility to calm her down? You’re the angel, you do it.” he said, storming back to his seat.

Ellen watched, confused.

“You have nothing to fear from me, Ellen Derst.” Idris said. “I am Idris. You are seeing me now so that I can assist you in the events that are about to unfold.”

“Events…” Ellen repeated. Her face was still pale, but there was a wonder creeping in, replacing the fear.

“Much is going to happen in the next few weeks that will change the world forever. You are a part of that change.” Idris said.

“You sure you have the right person?” Ellen asked meekly. “I’m not the world-changing type.”

“The world will change with or without you. It is your role in it that I am concerned with.” Idris said.

“I... don’t think there’s much I can do.” she said. “I mean, I’m not sure what you want from me.”

“More coffee.” Rosen said from the corner.

“Oh… yes.” the girl said quickly. Before Idris could respond, she bolted to the front of the shop, frantically preparing a new pot. Rosen watched, bemused.

“Hey… not bad. Not bad at all.” Rosen said. “I could get used to this..”

“Enjoy it while you can, Joseph. She is going to learn quickly.” Idris replied.

*****
Rosen was in agony.

Ellen had locked the shop at 1:00, but the three stayed to the wee hours of the morning. Despite Rosen’s best efforts, Ellen’s initial fear of Idris had morphed into an awe of all things angelic. It was a quality that Rosen lacked entirely. After several hours of listening to it, he had taken to sulking in the corner, ignoring them both.

“OK, cool.” she continued, moving directly to yet another question. “So, what about the way you look. I mean, you sound normal enough and all but you’re all frozen and stuff.”

“You are seeing only a shadow of my true self. I act in many worlds at once, but the fullness of it is more than humans can comprehend.”

“So, you’re like a pause button on a DVD when you want to stop it and see what’s going on because there’s too much happening.” Ellen said.

Idris smiled.

“So, what about clothes and stuff? Do you change or are they, like, a uniform or something?”

“Like all else, my clothes are a representation of a reality, not the reality itself.”

“So, no to clothes. What about music? Do angels just play harps or do you listen to real music?”

“Some angels play harps, though not many and only on Earth. Celestial music is a different thing.”

“Oh.” she said. “So, what about food? Do angels eat?”

It was at this point that Rosen snapped.

“Idris, you’re right.” he shouted from his corner. “I’ve changed my mind. I am now ready to accept whatever gruesome death you have planned for me. Just please… make her stop!”

Ellen looked at Rosen, then back at Idris. “Do you have to eat special angel food or just human food?” she asked.

Rosen screamed.

“This is insane.” Rosen pleaded. “The world is about to go to hell in a hand-basket and you two are sitting there talking about angel fashion accessories. Idris, come on. Seriously. This is not appropriate.”

“It’s not only appropriate, Joseph, it is vitally important that Ellen be allowed to know all that her mind can think to ask. As this world ends. her knowledge is going to become vital for those that survive.”

The words Idris had chosen, ‘first death’, cut through Rosen like a knife. All of what the angel had revealed to him of humanity’s fate came flooding back, the madness of it overwhelming him again.

“Do you have a penis?” Ellen asked coyly.

Despite the crushing darkness that was claiming him, Rosen discovered that his mind refused to ignore Idris’ answer.

*****

The questions continued for hours. In time, Idris managed to steer her to more pertinent questions regarding the ensuing apocalypse and the prophesies concerning it. Even this failed to engage Rosen, couched as it was in the teenager’s world view.

“So there aren’t any real horses?” Ellen asked.

“John did his best to write down everything he was shown, but much of it was beyond his comprehension. He saw beings like myself moving through the sky. Just as you see my clothes as your mind wishes to perceive them, John saw horses.” Idris replied.

“Oh.” she said, frowning “..’Cause that was kinda one part of this that sounded cool. You know—giant horses flying through the air. Woulda been cool.”

“No horses.” Idris repeated. “In fact, most humans will see nothing at all. Only the effect of the angel’s hand. It has been so since the beginning, the work of angels ascribed to natural phenomena.”

“What does ‘ascribed’ mean again?” Ellen asked.

Somewhere across the café, Rosen groaned.

“It means that for the most. part, people do not want to see miracles, so they don’t. As it was when we entered the café. I stood right before you and you saw nothing until I wished you to.”

“So, you were here before? How many times?” Ellen asked

“Only once, when I entered with Joseph.” Idris explained.

“But I saw you.” she said.

“You did not see me when we entered, or when Joseph ordered his coffee.”

“That’s because you weren’t here then.” Ellen said, confused.

“I was here. But your eyes were not yet ready to—“

“That’s it. I am going home.” Rosen declared, crawling up from the booth he’d been lying in. “You two go ahead and gleefully discuss the destruction of humanity. I’m done.”

He was almost to the door before Idris appeared there, blocking his way. Ellen remained at the table, staring at the empty space where the angel had been a second earlier.

“It’s me that has to leave, Joseph. There is much I must attend to in these days. This girl is your charge now. You are to be her shield in the days to come.”

“Fat chance.” Rosen replied. “If the world is going to die, I am not spending my last week tending to an annoying teenager with the IQ of a common houseplant. Besides, I apparently have a package to deliver, remember?”

“She is part of what you are to do.” Idris explained.

“Great. We can make a game out of figuring out which of us is going to die first.” Rosen said, making to leave.

“It will be you.” Idris said simply.

Rosen scowled and made an attempt to push past Idris. After several very determined attempts it became obvious that the angel was not going to cede. Rosen resorted to a verbal attack.

“I’ve spent 30 years doing exactly what you wanted, and it’s cost me my whole damned life. Now, at the end, you want to add this extra special bit of agony?” Rosen said, pointing toward Ellen. “For what? So I can keep her alive long enough for her to die the way you want her to die? Forget it Idris. I said before that I am not going to be a part of this and I won’t. Find some other minion.”

“She is never going to die.” Idris explained.

Rosen turned to look at the girl. She was adjusting the dials on her IPod, the earphones blasting music that Rosen was sure he’d hate. The presence of the angel seemed all but forgotten.

“This is the future of humanity?” Rosen asked dryly.

“She gets better.” Idris said.

Rosen slumped into the closest chair. Putting his head in his hands, he sighed.

“You couldn’t have done all this fifteen years ago when I was still young enough to get through it?”

“You’ll get through it.” the angel countered.

“No… no I won’t.” Rosen said, a sad laughter following his words.

Idris was silent.

“Just tell me this much… how long do we have before all this starts? How long before this first death hits and it all goes to hell?”

“It began four hours ago.” Idris replied.

Rosen sat silent. He was waiting for the tears or anger to resurface, but they didn't come. Instead, there was only a composed quietness inside him— a certitude that only comes from an awareness of the inevitable. This, he imagined, was how men on death row felt. He looked up, his eyes clear.

“You could have told me all this last year before I quit smoking.” he said.