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    Deceiving the Elect - Book 1: Quickening Dreams
    Deceiving the Elect - Book 1: Quickening Dreams
    Deceiving the Elect - Book 1: Quickening Dreams
    Ebook621 pages10 hours

    Deceiving the Elect - Book 1: Quickening Dreams

    By Douglas Christian Larsen

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    About this ebook

    "Deceiving the Elect - Book 1: Quickening Dreams" is the story of a fellowship of world-weary people who hear the call of the still small voice, the call to a mystical quickening, their hearts and minds opening to the Ancient of Days and the whisper of Truth. It is also the tale of Jehovah's Army, a powerful new spiritual, political and mercenary juggernaut, forcefully shepherding all religions into one ecumenical force, marching under the banner of Christ. The first goal of JA: take back America for Jesus, and the next? Ultimately, the world. These self-appointed men of God will usher in a new golden age of peace, under a new world order, where an anointed one will rule the world with a rod of iron. We have been repeatedly warned: "Do not be deceived!"

    We have true gifts: reason, memory, intuition, and intelligence. It is our mission to employ these in seeking the truth.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherLulu.com
    Release dateOct 12, 2011
    ISBN9781105137044
    Deceiving the Elect - Book 1: Quickening Dreams

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      Book preview

      Deceiving the Elect - Book 1 - Douglas Christian Larsen

      Deceiving the Elect - Book 1: Quickening Dreams

      Deceiving the Elect

      Book 1: Quickening Dreams

      By Douglas Christian Larsen

      Wolftales UNlimited

      www.WolftalesUNlimited.com

      Wolftales UNlimited

      ©Copyright 2011 Douglas Christian Larsen. All Rights Reserved by the Author. No part of this book may be reproduced (except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews) or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the publisher, Wolftales UNlimited.

      This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

      Special First Edition

      ISBN: 978-1-105-13704-4

      Dedicated to both:

      my Wife, Carolena of the Angels,

      God’s gift to me

      though I deserved no gift

      woman of substance

      lover and friend

      my Mother, Nancy Lee Larsen

      faithfully read to me when I was little,

      listened to my stories when I was bigger than little,

      then read my stories though she is not a reader

      throughout my life has taught through example

      the meaning of unconditional love

      (this, heroically, in spite of me being me)

      Acknowledgements:

      Eric Pichot, lifetime friend, reader

      almost everything I’ve ever written

      laughed at me—the appropriate times

      laughed with me—the inappropriate

      Irina Kocsis, friend and proofreader

      who none too gently nagged down

      most of the cruder characters in the novel

      Deceiving the Elect

      Dedicated to both:

      Prologue

      Chapter 1

      Storyteller Interim: 01:12

      Chapter 2

      Storyteller Interim 01:11

      Chapter 3

      Interim Dreamer: 001

      Chapter 4

      Storyteller Interim 01:10

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Interim Dreamer: 002

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Storyteller Interim 01:09

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Storyteller Interim 01:08

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Interim Dreamer: 003

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      About the Author:

      Prologue

      For false Christs and false prophets shall rise, and shall shew signs and wonders, to seduce, if it were possible, even the elect.

      Mark 13:22

      Staceman watched the people flying,

      soaring more powerfully, swifter than birds, agile as angels, doing modified crawl strokes ten feet above the ground, their arms and legs scrambling, mouths stretched wide in delighted screams. He blinked his eyes. This was all so much like a dream! It was so very much like he had always imagined this glorious event, and yet so, so different. He knew it shouldn’t, but his heart slammed in his chest. What was there to fear?

      Was it a dream? He lifted his arms and rubbed his wrists into his eyes, and then studied his hands, looking intently at the myriad wrinkles, his very own fingernails, cuticles, lifelines and scars and imperfect whorls of hair, seeing everything as if for the first time, so new, so bright. You couldn’t do that in a dream, could you? These close-up and utterly nonessential details were never included by the dreaming mind, in the dream world. But Stacey could not remember how he got here. It seemed to be a flash, a minute twinkle of light reflected from a bead of dew beaming the morning sunlight. Dew sparkling like diamonds, a terrible cliché, but hey, what could you do when that’s exactly what it looked like? The proverbial twinkle of the eye...

      Was that it? In the twinkling of an eye? He swallowed hard and looked up from his hands. Maybe the idiots were right, after all! The Rapture was true! It was true, all true, and here he was, in a flash of time, right here, in a whole new world.

      This new world was utterly beautiful, utterly bright. The buildings all towers, gleaming white, the millions of people seeming flawless in physical perfection, dressed in shining white raiment. Raiment? What kind of word was that to be using? Didn’t raiment mean clothes? So why not say clothes? Staceman Colton, or Spaceman as most of his post high school friends called him, was in heaven, dressed in beautiful white raiment that felt as light as a feather. He wondered if anything could be as wonderful, as beautiful, and as perfect as this?

      But still. Down deep, in a secluded room of his heart...he wondered. He wondered. He frowned and seemed to be the only person within his perfect eyesight whose mouth held such an uncharacteristic downward flexing. A frown. Just an upside down smile, that’s all, but how strange. Something, something...he could not quite put his finger on it, but something was dreadfully wrong. Something? What? I mean, something had to be wrong, didn’t it? Nothing was perfect, was it? His eyes slowly moved across acres of people, and there he spotted the Lord—Jesus Christ, the Good Shepherd—surrounded by flocks of tumbling, riotous children, beautiful human sheep. The children! So many children. But it was easy to spot the Lord, even amidst all the riotous splendor. So obvious and so easily seen, even buried deep in a huge pressing crowd of laughing faces, waving arms, hugging arms, outstretched fingers, touching fingers, all of the people pressing in upon the King of kings and Lord of lords. Jesus Christ stood head and shoulders above those about Him. He was a giant. And the Lord, even though far away, looked across the heads of all those people, and His eyes searched for just a moment, just a moment really, and then his gaze met and held Stacey’s widening eyes.

      The Lord smiled, and Stacey returned the beaming expression. Okay. It’s all okay, really. All seemed as right as California raisins in the rain, again, but mainly on the plain. All was right. It had to be right, didn’t it, if this was heaven? Perfect? Finally, perfect? Right. All was. Yes, all was right. Really. All was perfectly perfect. Or was it? Yet, deep within his breast, a nervous flutter tapped against the inside of his chest, perhaps weakly for the moment, up against the bottom of his throat. Maybe just a tickle, the errant butterfly. Stacey, his smile intact, looked away from the Lord. How could you continue to stare into such eyes as those? Eyes that saw and completely understood eternity.

      Stacey again watched the flying children. It looked wonderful, the aerial acrobatics they performed. Most of them remained close to the ground, but a few more adventurous shot off into the atmosphere, soaring, the wind screaming off their bodies, flying without wings, their faces upturned, eyes closed, confident in this new uncanny ability, shooting upward like rockets, higher, higher, until they were no more than tiny dots, like specks of dust in a sunbeam, twisting and turning, rising and impossibly falling—no fear, the popular advertising slogan said off all the backs of all the pickup trucks in the world—and here was the best advertisement ever. No fear. Stacey wanted to try the flying thing too, seeming almost familiar, perhaps half-forgotten dreams he dreamed as a boy.

      How old am I, he briefly wondered. Age did not seem to be concrete here, no longer a factor in reality. Only yesterday he was eighteen years old—was it really only yesterday? Or was it only today? Is that how the Rapture worked? You lost time as you transformed into incorruption? Above time. Bigger than time. Time, time, what time? But today, or in the now of this moment, he seemed older and younger, wiser and yet somehow more innocent than he had ever been before, and everyone he saw about him seemed no more than what his old mind perceived as in their twenties—young, wrinkle-free, ageless, and perfect. Glowing and flushed and laughing and sparking. Sparking? Yes, light seemed to shoot off of everyone, in tiny effervescent twinkles. But sparkling, too. Sparkling? Yes, they seemed to wink and sparkle with the impossible white light!

      He blinked his eyes. A blonde girl flew past him, and for just a moment, for just the shadow of a heartbeat, it seemed he perceived a wrinkle in the air just above her. Maybe he just had something in his eye—but could you get something in your eye in heaven? He blinked and his eyes trailed her as she executed neat somersaults twenty-five feet above the ground, without a wire or a net, as agile and fleet as any bird of the sky. She was impossibly beautiful and impossibly graceful. There! Just again, something seemed to shade above her, a movement—no, not a movement—but a shadow winking into reality just above her back...looking directly at it, the shadow, he could not see it, but if he moved his eyes just slightly off-kilter, moved just into the peripheral field, what? What was he seeing, anyway? Hmm, silly, to be looking for zippers in a perfection suit, but what, what was he noticing about the beautiful blonde girl, sailing so naturally in the warm breezes of the air...

      ...and yet the impossibly beautiful blonde girl did not seem natural, not at all. The movements she made, the turns of her body, the flailing of her legs and arms—all seemed contrary to the effortless arc of her flight through the heavens. Like a puppy suddenly able to dart about in air currents just like a hummingbird. Staceman shadowed his eyes from the intense light which emanated from no particular place, and yet from everywhere at once—the light seemed painful (was it politically correct to use painful here, anyway? Would he receive a demerit?) And what kind of thought was that to be thinking, anyway? He was surprised that sarcastic thoughts were still possible; of course he’d always leaned to the sarcastic left. But he watched the beautiful blonde girl in her natural/unnatural flight. No, her flight was not natural, because all her motions seemed at odds with the effortless flight—as if she were being carried. He mentally slapped himself. Just stop it, you worry wart, what are you going to do now? Start nit-picking heaven?

      Should you even be able to think of nits in heaven? And, now that he thought of it, what exactly is a nit, anyway?

      There! Again, just behind a shining black man who flew through the air at about a distance of ten feet from the ground—a shadow seemed to wing along just above him. A dark vaporous doppelganger. For a moment it appeared that Staceman had discerned the sleight of hand behind the street magician’s trick. He had seen the little green pea pop out behind the walnut shell, for only a flash, to be rolled right under another shell. His mouth twitched and he nearly allowed himself to think: Ah! I know how they do it! But instinctively he knew it would be not wise to think such a thought, not wise in any sense of the word, not even here, in heaven. It would be dangerous. He inhaled sharply and it felt as if his heart had stopped dead and fish-cold in his chest. For a moment, just a moment, Stacey thought he saw a machine or jetpack strapped to the laughing man’s back. No, not a machine, there was nothing machinelike at all about that transparent shadow above the black man’s back. Hmm, Black Man’s Back, nice tongue-twister, that.

      He slapped himself on the forehead. Just stop it. Stop goofing around. You were always a goof off and you’ll always be a goof off, even here in heaven, I guess, and they’re going to get sick of you and boot you out.

      Or crucify you.

      The Staceman backed away, his eyes fastened upon the flyers. Now everything was normal, well, as normal as things here could relatively be. He bumped against someone, and still moving backward, bumped into someone else. He couldn’t look away from the figures in the sky, and there again, another ripple in the air, another dark shape winging—winging—above a flying boy’s back, and there, above a red-head’s head, some large dark shape. And as if his eyes were opening, focusing, and adjusting—evolving to some other dimension of reality, he suddenly perceived dark floating mists accompanying each and every one of the hundreds—no, thousands—of people flying and laughing, screaming and chortling. And the dark shapes were much larger than the comparatively tiny specks of flying people. The people were being carried through the air. Carried, but they thought they were flying—what could that mean? Why would they need to be tricked like that? Tricked? What kind of thought was that to be thinking in heaven? Just stop it, Stacey, just stop it! The people were being carried about like toads in the talon of great eagles.

      Watch it, brother, someone said as Stacey, still moving in reverse, slammed into them. Funny, but the instant irritation was so painfully apparent in the delivery of the slammee—did irritation hang around as a product of heaven, then? Stacey, without apologizing, whirled and dashed toward the nearest building—what appeared to be a temple, or a church—and slammed into a woman.

      I’m so sorry, he burst, looking with dismay at the woman lying upon the ground. The woman he had just knocked off her feet.

      You idiot! she cried, gazing up at him with anger.

      He went to his knees to help her up, but she slapped his hands away as some sister bent to aid her. She called him a name he never thought he would hear in heaven. He didn’t think his mother would appreciate such a non-flattering description, either, even back on earth.

      I’m really sorry, he repeated, edging slowly away.

      The woman, dusting herself off, called him a truly nasty name. Not only was it vile and dirty, but kind of on the blasphemous side, as well. Well, no somewhat there at all—she had blasphemed in heaven! Maybe that was part of the fun of heaven; the Ten Commandments really have no meaning up here! And why should they, as they’d first gone bankrupt on earth.

      Stay calm, he told himself, measuring each of his steps. Allow your shoulders to hang naturally. Breathe, keep breathing, and keep a dopey grin on your face. Don’t let them know that you know. Know what? Know what! Don’t let them know what you know. Stupid smile. Yes, just like that guy—the guy who is staggering around as if he is drunk. Or that woman, the one shrieking, who seems to be laughing and laughing like she is stuck and can never stop laughing, tears pouring from her eyes—the panic just discernible hiding behind her laughter, ready at any second to erupt from laughter into screams of terror, of pain, of utter, utter fear. And all the faces, mirror them, the faces twisted, the faces more grimacing smiles than smiling the smiles. Be like them. Look like them. And keep moving. Just keep on moving.

      Is this heaven? He asked himself. Don’t be stupid. What else could it be? You know, though, don’t you? He put his hand out to touch the comforting warmth of the building, felt the rough tape-and-texture brilliance of the painted wall. You know, though, don’t you, Staceman? Paint in heaven? Well, why not?

      You’re being stupid, he told himself. Here you are, in heaven, for goodness sake, and you’re worrying about the shadows of flying people, you’re worrying about painted buildings and people who can’t stop laughing! Can you blame them? They’ve just been delivered from all the pain of the world, all the death and murder and disease, the sudden infant death syndromes and abortion and school shootings and parent killing and wars and rumors of wars and miscarriages and sexual abuse and especially Saturday morning cartoons.

      The real question is, "Why aren’t you laughing, Staceman?" Sshhh, don’t speak out loud, don’t think out loud, just keep that stupid smile on your face. Can they read your mind in heaven?

      He smoothed his hand on the painted wall. The paint was whiter than anything he had ever thought of as white before. Gorgeous. His fingers trailed up to bubbled stained glass, not like the stained glass of earth—no, this glass emanated its own light, captured its own light, manufactured its own glory, reflecting haloes of blue and magenta and maroon upon his skin. And the glass, if it could be called glass, was thick. Bulletproof. He nearly laughed. Bullets in heaven, the very idea, it was funny, wasn't it? Like, he thought, war in heaven. For a moment he felt like a four-year-old boy, watching with starry-eyed wonder the twinkling of many colored points of light upon the Christmas tree in the Lake House, back when his parents were together, happily married, which had to be about the happiest period of his life on earth. He turned his hand this way and that, enjoying the luminescent rainbow of light shining out of the stained glass, laser beams coloring his skin. Light expanding and turning, glowing all the hues of Crayola crayons on steroids.

      Boy am I silly. My first day in heaven and I can’t stop worrying. I’ve always been a worrier and I guess I’m a worrier in heaven too. He smiled, and laughed. Enjoy the colors. The white paint. The cans of paint must have the logo Glory stamped on them. Enjoy, enjoy, throw back your head and laugh. Fine, all is fine. Sure, everything is fine. Enjoy this, the beautiful colors, the good people. Try a flight yourself, and be like a bird, or more, like an angel!

      Like an angel. He looked up into the sky. He could now see the dark shadow shapes perfectly. His eyes had adjusted. How come he couldn’t see them before? The shapes, huge, winged, long—angels. Well, that explains it, then. Angels. Everywhere. But why were they dark? Why were they hidden? Everyone else must be able to tune into them as well, can’t they?

      He glanced out over the thousands of people and as if by magnetic force, or some horizontal gravity, his eyes met those of The Lord. The Good Shepherd seemed to be watching Stacey Colton, as if all the people between Him and him did not exist, as if it were only me and Thee, Shepherd and sheep. Am I a sheep? What did Jesus say to the goats on his left hand, or was it right?

      Ridiculously, a childhood song snapped like a pop-up video into his brain: He knows when you are sleeping, He knows when you’re awake; He knows when you’ve been bad or good, so be good for goodness sake...!

      That’s Santa Claus, Stacey burst, surprising himself with a snort of laughter. Not Jesus!

      His laughter froze. Died away. Because his eyes had not left those of the Master, and he realized with a start that Jesus was not smiling back at him. That’s Santa Claus, not Jesus. What a thought. He stared at Jesus. Jesus seemed to be frowning. No, not frowning—he looked more like the rapper Ice Cube with his characteristic wrinkled, glowering forehead and snarling eyes. Stacey looked away, swallowing hard, suddenly more self-conscious than he’d been than all the times he’d been shy or self-doubting in his whole life, put together, combined and ditto amen and amen. Heaven. What a complete nightmare. Leave it up to the Staceman, a rebel in heaven. Heaven with a glowering Ice Cube Jesus.

      Again he put his hand up to the stained-glass bubble of gorgeous light. He wanted that sense of childhood happiness, childhood carefree glee again, but then he lifted his hand just a tad higher, and he froze.

      He nearly had put his hand into a cobweb. Yuck. But the instantaneous fear was already gone; there was no spider in such an old web, whatever spider lived here had either died or packed up shop a long time ago, and had moved on to greener pastures, or darker corners, wherever more bugs crawled in heaven. As it were, only a small dead fly, rotted and dry, remained dangling in the old web. Nothing to fear in a cobweb, right? No poisonous spider in a cobweb. Only a dead bug, a fly in the old web.

      Flies in heaven, Stacey said, softly. Flies, and spiders too. Hmmm. And dead bugs as well. He frowned. Spiders suck the blood out of flies in heaven. Well, why shouldn’t there be a vicious cycle of life and death in heaven? Wait a minute. He had always thought death would be eliminated in heaven. Oh death, where is thy victory, or however that went. But apparently not. At least for bugs. For people, sure, just look how insanely happy everyone was, like they were stoned out of their gourds. But the bugs, ah, the poor flies and spiders. Tut tut, the silly things. Let them get their own Saviors. His eyes focused closer upon the painted wall and he saw a jutting blob of paint curling away. His fingers moved. He couldn’t help himself. Like some people can’t keep their hands off their pimples. Some kind of picky obsession. He wanted to stop himself, his mind screamed at him to stop, stop, stop, and he tried to slow his fingers, but they moved ahead as if with their own mind, they lifted off, like rockets, departed the stained glass, spaceships launching into space, and without any conscious thought his fingernail picked and pried at the paint blob, just like someone picking at their own face, and suddenly the blob jerked, it moved, and it was falling, it was falling away, loosing a dusting of plaster beneath it, dust sprang up, filled the air, and the paint blob fell away, in slow motion, trailing downward, and Stacey’s eyes widened, and he stared, his eyes fastened at the empty space where the paint blob had been, he stared at old brick, red tired pitted brick, the underlying red brick bared suddenly from beneath the falling Glory-brand paint. And he couldn’t help himself, his fingers, both hands, began dusting and clearing, a mad archeologist stumbling on the tomb of Moses.

      Yuppers, a brick, an old brick beneath the beautiful white paint. Suddenly fear burst out from within him, as if it were spouting like icy water from a fire hose attached to his heart, and shooting with terrible force out his arms and legs and eyes and ears and every orifice of his being. And the revelers about him sensed it, oh yeah, right off, and a wide path cleared about Stacey Colton. He, the perceiver of the dead fly, he the archeologist of the old red brick—Stacey Colton, that meddler, that troublemaker, that present-day Lucifer!

      He looked up, and again his eyes snapped to those of the guy he thought was Jesus, and sure enough the guy was looking at him, and he still wasn’t smiling, but now he was doing more than a posing rapper’s scowl: he was snarling.

      Suddenly the lord seemed much closer than he was a mere heartbeat before. Stacey felt his back slam into the wall as the lord began to move in gargantuan strides his way. Growing, bigger, moving forward faster. The guy he at first thought was Jesus was now roughly pushing people out of the way, shoving them left and right, now knocking them aside with fists, and now outright trampling over them. Rag dolls flipped and flung, cartwheeling and dropping and falling and too quickly splatting upon the golden streets.

      Who let you in here? The would-be, good-be shepherd thundered.

      Stacey shook his head and pushed back against the wall like a cornered mouse. Every molecule of his being demanded flight, instantaneous screaming, shrieking escape, run baby run, as the charging lord smashed his way through the screaming people.

      Suddenly people were falling from the sky, shrieking in terror as dark vaporous shapes deserted them and turned toward Stacey, whose eyes were ping-ponging in terror between the dark shapes, the falling people, and the angry, trampling being approaching him. People screamed. Blood splattered. Shapes plummeted to the ground, splatting noisily, terribly loud.

      He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored, Stacey thought, but felt no inclination to burst into a chorus of Glory Hallelujah!

      The furious being was almost here. He no longer looked like a man. Stacey couldn’t look away now. His body quaked with grand mal seizure. Look! It was some kind of animal. Like a hippo, an elephant, or a rhino. And it was rabies mad, lunatic mad, psychotic serial killer mad—it was slobbering, slavering enraged.

      WHO LET YOU IN HERE? YOU DON’T BELONG! the furious rhinoceros thundered, in the voice of doom sounding like a million industrial-strength toilets flushing simultaneously, now aiming a deadly sharp nose-spear at Stacey. The angry being still wore a white robe and sported a bushy brown beard, but now it definitely was a rhinoceros, a lumbering and huge monster of destruction. And, most horrible of all, there was a leering, smiling face upon the rhinoceros horn.

      This has to be a dream, Stacey panted, struggling vainly to push himself into the wall, away from the terrible creature that was too close before him. He screamed and lifted his hands to keep the plunging beast off his throat, he put his fists up like a boxer and he knew how to defend himself and he knew how to attack but now it was pure instinct because there was absolutely no attack against this fierce creature and absolutely no thought of defense, but yet there his hands were, fists up, right fist protectively and loosely before his jaw and left hand out ready to jab ready to feint but the lion crashed down, its terrible fangs closing upon him, roaring, and roaring, and roaring—

      —Stacey came awake with an electric surge. He was lying flat in the dark room, and his body rocked in his bed, vibrating, as if he had just fallen through space and time, fallen through the ceiling—he had just fallen from that other world into this world, and he knew that he was in bed, and he knew for certain that he was not breathing, and it seemed that an eternity had passed since his last inhalation of air. Maybe this was death, NDE, or something whacked like that. His mouth popped open fishlike. He gasped as he rolled onto his side. A dream, a nightmare, it had just been a dream, he thought, terrified and electrified with bladder-shaking fear, only a dream, calm down, you’re awake now, in your bedroom, and it was only a dream, only a dream, only a dream—he breathed, his mouth shuddering, his body quaking, tears springing to his eyes, breathe, just breathe, the air felt good coming in and out, thank God, he could breathe again, finally, and thank God, it was only a dream...

      It was not a dream, a deep voice said from the dark.

      With a jolt Stacey jerked about and drew his legs up into a fetal ball as he stared toward the foot of his bed. A tall man was standing there, looking at him in the darkness, and even though perfectly dark, Stacey could see every feature of the man in armor standing there, the deep dark, so dark and terrible eyes, and the prominent, alien cheekbones, the cascade of black hair upon broad shoulders, too-broad shoulders. And wings rose up like a great eagle behind the man, stretching from one corner of the room to the other. This was not a man. No man ever had such strength, such beauty, and such fierce unearthly light emanating from his very being.

      Stacey felt as if all strength was gone from his body. He could not move. He was a slab of ice. A giant iced steak. He couldn’t breathe or move or speak or look away or even close his eyes. The dream was bad, but this was different, worse in terror potency. This was real. Real. An angel stood at the foot of his bed. A real angel. Not some cartoon dead person sent back to the earth to help you get a raise at work. This was a real angel, swelling there, the terrible reality of its being filling up the entire room from wingtip to wingtip, as differently above a human as a human was above an ape.

      Tomorrow it will seem a dream, my beloved charge, the being spoke again in a voice of music, sheer beauty, incense for the ears. "But tonight know that it is true, a vision of things to come. This was not a vision of symbols to interpret. I assure you that everything you believe is true, and the wheel of eternity is turning swiftly now, swifter than you imagine."

      Stacey was marble, a statue boy-man; uncertain whether he was living or dead. He could only stare at the being visible even in darkness, a glowing man composed of light, and yet an embossment of the shadow, of night, and things unseen or felt. He was certain he was not even breathing.

      You are greatly loved, Stacey. Beloved. But you must cling to the truth, my charge. Do not let it go, even when it turns inside out, and seemingly vanishes to reappear again soon after. Get wisdom, equip yourself, and study for understanding. Cling to truth. That which is unwritten will occur, but it will not be what it seems. For what has returned will not be what it once was, only a semblance, a shadow, something unseen when looked at directly, but seen when viewed through the corners of your eyes. The written word is stronger than the solitary revelation, and the raptor’s talon is the handshake of the enemy. Do not be deceived, beloved charge. Cling to the truth. And cling to the three others, when you find them.

      Stacey felt miserable and filthy before the strange being at the foot of his bed. I must be dead, he thought, because I am not breathing. If I could, I would throw myself face-down on the ground, and I would not care if I ever breathed again.

      But tonight, dear charge, the majestic being said, "rest. Rest is important. Remember, rest. Rest, close your eyes, and rest. Yes, there, rest. Shhhh. Rest..."

      Stacey’s eyes closed, he took a deep, shuddering breath as his body eased slack, and he slept.

      * * *

      The big boy stood staring blankly through the window at the darkness beyond. Although he stood taller than most men, the boy was only fourteen years old. At this point, no one knew just how tall he would eventually sprout—Oma and Opa worried that Joshua, the baby in the family, might end up taller than most professional basketball players, but if so, that was okay, they’d still love him, just as Joshua’s two big brothers topped out at six-foot-four and six-foot-five. The family did not really mind how tall their precociously tall Joshua grew, but they wished people would treat their giant son more kindly, as Joshua was the kindest and gentlest giant on the face of the Earth.

      Joshua stood staring, mouth hanging slack, slabs of hands dangling, eyes at half-mast, staring out into the darkness of night. He felt numb, all over. His eyelids were heavy, and he swayed. Swayed. Don’t fall over, he thought, or did someone say that? Was there someone standing at his shoulder, right now, someone watching Joshua? A someone, even taller than Joshua? Was that even humanly possible?

      Sleepwalking, Joshua mumbled. He had been sleepwalking ever since he had learned to walk—the family joked that he had probably done some heavy-duty sleepcrawling before that time.

      The boy’s face was battered, a scab on his chin, a new cut above his left eyebrow, swelling beneath his right eye, and a loose tooth in his mouth—children had always been rough on Joshua, and now teenagers were proving no different. Still, all in all, this hadn’t been a bad day for his first day of high school, his first day as the new kid in a small-town school. Joshua liked the kids at school, but that wasn’t saying much as he generally liked anyone he met. However, kids, and adults too, in general did not smile upon the gangling thirteen-year-old who lumbered into their vicinity, all six feet six inches (and growing) of him—people instinctively found him imposing, even threatening, despite his goofy, goony smile.

      They called him Goliath and Beanstalk Boy and sometimes Frankenstein. King Kong and Godzilla. But Joshua didn’t mind. He loved people, regardless of what they called him. Or when they struck him, with their fists, or sometimes baseball bats. He wanted to be like Michael Jordan, even though Jordan was black, and Joshua was white, because the guy had it all so together, and seemed so gentle, as gentle as Joshua himself, and yet people treated him nice. Joshua wished he were black, well, yeah, white was okay too. But Michael Jordan seemed so graceful, so confident, not like Joshua, an ever-tripping, ever leaning Tower of Pisa. Joshua bumped his forehead on low-hanging things, tripped on little things that were so far below his head, and when he attempted to dunk a basketball he nearly always somersaulted over his Size 15 sneakers and the basketball drizzled away beneath the backboard.

      Sleepwalking, Joshua repeated, and blinked. Odd. Generally, when you practiced sleepwalking, you had no idea you were doing it. Usually someone had to tell you of the fact the next day. So maybe this wasn’t sleepwalking, after all. What, then? Joshua did not know. He did not know why he was standing in the living room of his parents’ house, staring out the window, in the middle of the night. He swayed sideways, back and forth, like the pendulum in a giant grandfather’s clock, only upside down.

      Something is coming, Joshua said, as the trees moved out there, in the darkness, and the sound of the wind rose in the still, quiet night. Oh yes, something was out there, headed this way, moving through the darkness. He shuddered. His body was alive with gooseflesh. Something out there, something coming this way, like King Kong coming through the jungle, knocking towering trees left and right. Something bigger, stronger, more terrible than King Kong. Lightning flashed. Lightning. A storm. Something. Something, coming, this way, something.

      Then Opa was there at his elbow, shaking his arm gently. You okay, Josh? Sleepwalking again? Wake up, sweetheart, wake up, and let’s get you back to bed.

      Joshua looked down on his father, all five feet two inches of the fifty-year-old Opa. It’s coming, Opa. He looked back outside. His father looked out the window too.

      What is it, Josh? What’s coming? Opa said, and his voice shook. He adjusted his glasses and peered through the window. All was quiet. It was blackness out there, you really couldn’t see anything. But the way Joshua said it: It’s coming. Opa more than half-believed he’d see something charging the window, any second, something great and hairy, some homicidal ape. But the night was perfectly calm, nary a breeze blowing, no moon, no stars, just blackness and dead quiet. But Opa’s back rippled with gooseflesh. He swallowed hard and peered up at his behemoth son.

      Joshua inhaled deeply. He watched as the sky lit up outside—lightning snaking down. Fireworks. The big show on the Fourth of July down at Lane Park. Huge clouds boiling up above the neighbors’ houses, the storm clouds purple and black and green as the sky turned emerald, like swimming through the ocean, and then long fingerlike tubes dropping down from the clouds. Mushroom clouds. Mushroom clouds with dangling fingers, reaching down, grasping. A giant hand? No, twisters. Tornadoes, two of them, now three, four, and then two more—twisters, cyclones, reaching down like a six-fingered hand, reaching down. Beautiful, that’s what Joshua thought, he’d always wanted to see a real, live tornado, and now here he gets to witness six of ’em. The sky flashing with brilliant light. They were coming; the tornadoes were coming, straight at Joshua and Opa. And in front of the terrible sky tubes ran three small figures, no, four. And Joshua saw that he was one of them, the tallest of them, the figures, of course. He was running with a man, a woman, and a little boy. Or not a boy, but a very small man. They were running toward Opa and Joshua, the figures, just before the storm, but they’d never make it to the house in time. The wind roared at the house and the little building rocked and shook. Run, Joshua thought, run, don’t let them catch you. Suddenly the window burst inward showering Joshua and his father with glass.

      What do you see, Josh? Opa asked, looking from the dark window up into his son’s pale face. There was not a sound outside, and yet Joshua seemed to be looking at something, hearing something. Something. Joshua trembled, and tears streamed from his eyes and nose. Something. Something wicked, this way, coming.

      Big tears rolled down Joshua’s face. Joshua’s broad chest began to hitch.

      "The storm is coming, Opa. The storm—is coming," Joshua said in his deep voice, his tone strangely flat, dreamlike. The window was not broken. In fact, for just an instant, Joshua looked at his own reflection in the glass, and he could see Opa’s little head on one side of him, down low about at chest level, and on the other side stood the angel, with his arm about Joshua’s shoulders—the angel was quite a bit taller than Joshua. It made him feel small. The angel was beautiful and alien, hardly human at all, nothing like all the pictures of them that made them out to be fluffy women-men, or fat little babies. This guy was power, living power, a breathing, reasoning bolt of lightning. Bright power, made out of cones and tubes and triangles and points. Maybe an electric bug, a giant firefly, but strong, beautiful, weird and breath-taking.

      Okay, sweetheart, let’s get you back to bed, Opa said, patting his son’s arm and pulling him back toward the hallway where the rest of the family slumbered. At first Joshua resisted and Opa had no chance in the world of moving the titan boy from the window, but then, slowly, Joshua relented, and followed his father back to his bedroom, and bed, and sleep.

      The storm is coming, Opa repeated, going to his own bedroom and found that when he took off his thick bifocals, kicked off his slippers and snuggled up next to Oma, he could not return to sleep.

      It is coming, he thought, it is coming, and there’s nothing we can do to stop it. It is coming. The storm is coming.

      * * *

      Little Mikey lies pinioned upon his sour bed, each arm tied to a corner of the headboard, feet stretched and tied to the footboard. He wants to die, but he can not put that wish into any true reasonable words—but his little body senses the entire wish, the deadly desire. His chest hurts, terribly. It throbs. Wib-bwoken, is how he said it to the doctor at the hospital which made the doctor and the nurses’ smile. It was so cute how he mispronounced his malady, and what a talent for underestimation the kid had, the medical professionals mused, because Little Mikey’s ribs were broken, plural, multiple, two on the right and three on the left, and he had two nasty hairline fractures on his spine, which may or may not affect the kid’s ability to walk, or at least walk normally, in later years, thought the doctor, shaking his head, tears so close. Most likely it would affect his growth, as well, or at least his lack of growth. Poor kid. He had to look forward to arthritis and other dark pains, and it wouldn’t be when he was an old man, either.

      Hell, the doctor thought, he knew this was a clear-cut case of child abuse, but he was seeing more and more of this kind every day, and what, really, could you do. What could you do? This kid is lucky. Probably won’t see his sixth birthday, or maybe so, as the day is so close. In all likelihood his prostitute mother doesn’t have insurance, no shocker there, and the man who did the damage to the kid probably is crossing state lines even as the doctor bends down to look into poor Little Mikey’s eyes, both of them swollen nearly shut. But the eyes behind the swollen flesh are so grave, and so blue, what kind of world is this, anyway? Such a serious little kid, such a serious Little Mikey. The doctor hates to admit it, but he kind of likes the rugrat. Not that he ever wants to share an ice cream cone with the bug, but the kid sure is likable, that’s for sure. A kind of soothing beauty to him, a kind of peace surrounding him. Such deep, wise blue eyes. What is that color, anyway? Turquoise? Teal? Call it beautiful, whatever color it was.

      But that was in the hospital, where Little Mikey enjoyed the attention the nurses gave him. And once in a while even the doctor, but Little Mikey sensed that the doctor didn’t like him. All in all, the hospital visit—all two weeks of it, was the best time in Little Mikey’s life, at least to date. Still, he had to get home, he thought every waking minute in the hospital; he had to get home to protect his baby sister. She needed him, he was all she had, and the angels had told him that God would take care of him, Little Mikey, because the Father had chosen him, Little Mikey, but that he, Little Mikey, needed to keep careful watch on his baby sister. Because bad people lived in the world. Lots of bad people, most of them men. Almost all of them men, the angel had said.

      Now Little Mikey was home, tied to his bed, not because his Mommy was mean, but because the doctors had said he couldn’t move, not much, because of the little cracks in his back. Mommy must have stepped on a crack. And Little Mikey could smell pee-pee, and he felt bad, because he was a big boy now and never went pee-pee in the bed, but now he was tied to the bed and no one had come to release him and carry him to the potty and so now he couldn’t help it, he had gone pee-pee and it burned down there. He knew he was going to get into bad trouble for this accident, but he wasn’t so much worried about that, getting into trouble, as he was about watching over his baby sister. She couldn’t even hardly walk yet, and still the bad men wanted to get to her, and hurt her, just like Uncle Frank did, just a few weeks ago, and when Little Mikey had stepped in front of his baby sister, to protect her, to watch over her like the angels said he should, Uncle Frank grabbed Little Mikey by the feet, and swung him around—Little Mikey saw the world blur—and then his little body smashed into a wall, and his back punched a hole in the wall, and Little Mikey was sure he was going to get into trouble for that, but then Aunt Nancy came into the room, screaming, and she picked up Little Mikey, and he felt like a bean bag without many beans left, and Aunt Nancy had called the big white truck with the flashing lights on top, and Little Mikey had enjoyed that ride, and the guys inside were very nice to Little Mikey. The pain hadn’t been that bad, in fact, he could hardly feel anything.

      Now all he could think about was that the world was not very nice, it was full of bad smells like pee-pee and bad burning sensations like in his private, and especially the world was full of bad men, and sometimes even bad women, though not as many as the bad men, and Little Mikey didn’t like the world, it was always dark, and he knew from TV that there were other little kids in the world, not just Little Mikey and his baby sister, but he had never met any in the real world, this dark world, and though he couldn’t put it into words, Little Mikey wanted to die. He had already absorbed all the pain a body is allowed to absorb, and poor Little Mikey didn’t want any more, not even a teaspoon full.

      You have to be brave, the angel said, kneeling by Little Mikey’s bed. The angel swept back the sweaty hair from Little Mikey’s forehead. You have to be strong, Michael, deep inside. You have to be strong inside that man inside you. Inside, you are very big, Michael, a man, even though outside you are very small, a boy.

      Bad wod, Little Mikey told the angel, tears welling up in his large blue eyes.

      The angel nodded, and his eyes brimmed with tears. Yes, Michael, a bad world. But you have to hang on, Michael. Don’t ever give up. Never. Endure. Michael, please, endure, never give up, okay?

      Little Mikey considered the request. He loved the angel, who had been his only friend for as long as he could remember—Mommy called the angel Little Mikey’s invisible pal. But now Mikey had his baby sister, only Little Mikey’s baby sister couldn’t see the angel, which frustrated Little Mikey, because nobody could see his shining friend, they called him Little Mikey’s invisible pal. He didn’t know what to tell the angel, because he didn’t know, not really, he just didn’t know if he really could hang on, keep going...

      Please, Beloved? the angel said, a tear running from his eye.

      Little Mikey felt sorry for the angel, who looked so sad. He nodded, smiling. Okay, he said, brightly. Nevuh gie up.

      The angel smiled. Good boy, Michael. Never give up.

      Nevuh gie up, Little Mikey repeated.

      And remember, who lives in your heart?

      Yosh-uh-wah, Michael said, grinning, the smell of pee-pee not so strong. Maybe the world wasn’t so bad, so dark, because even though there were bad men, there were also good angels, weren’t there? Even if they were only your invisible pals. And there was Yosh-uh-wah, who smelled good all the time, and who held Little Mikey when things got too bad in this bad world filled with bad men.

      * * *

      She looked up into his eyes and loved him with her entire being. Her little heart felt like it would explode, any second, it really did. Don’t go bye-bye, she whispered to him, slipping back into baby talk, even though she was a big girl now, more than seven, almost seven and a half.

      Papa has to go, Angel, but you’ll see him all the time, the big man with the dark eyes said. He was a little distracted. He wasn’t really paying attention, and this bothered him. If he allowed himself to pay attention, his heart would break, and he would die here, right in front of his little girl. And he had to keep himself distant, not care too much, because how was he ever going to survive in this world without seeing his pretty little Bronte every day, his own little Papa’s girl? He wondered, only briefly, where in the world Michelle was hiding, but he wasn’t surprised that the strange little girl hadn’t come forward—maybe she wouldn’t realize he was gone, not even for weeks, if ever. And when she finally did, she probably wouldn’t care.

      The little girl forced herself into his arms, up into his lap like she hadn’t done since she was five years old, all those years ago, before her mother had begun to turn her away from him, because he was second class, through and through, and would always be in the mother’s eyes. The little girl snuggled into his arms and buried her face into his chest. This was his cue. Ever since she was a baby she would snuggle into his arms and he would sing to her, but if he sang right now, he might not make it, just might not make it, because it was a long way to the door, and an even longer way to his old pick-up truck, and an even longer way back to sanity.

      Sing, she told him, imperiously. He smelled good, her Papa did, as he always did. That little creamy bottle with the ship on it, it wouldn’t ever be in the bathroom again. Would she ever smell Papa again? She should have swiped it when she had a chance. But it was gone now. She snuggled deeper within his embrace, she would never let him go, she would sit here in his arms, smelling him, loving him, until they both died and turned into skeletons like in The Hunchback of Notre Dame, which her Mami would kill her if she’d known that little Bronte had read it, but the little girl just couldn’t stop reading, even the books Mami told her not to read—maybe even especially those books.

      Papa has to go, he said, holding it all together. Just don’t let your head crack open, you weak, weak man, don’t show the little Angel how bad you’re hurting, don’t let her know, just run out of here, now, just run, go, go, go...

      Sing, she commanded.

      He held her tightly. He sang: Hey diddle, diddle, the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped over the mooooooooooooooon...the little dog laughed to see such sport, and the dish ran away with the spoooooooon. It was her favorite, and his. His sweet tenor voice easily moved deeper to a slightly more strained baritone, and when he hit the exaggerated basso profundo moooooon she giggled in his arms, as she always did, because he did sound just like a cow, didn’t he? That was a talent, wasn’t it? The ability to sound like a cow, one that jumped right over the moon, that had to count for something, didn’t it? And then she imperiously demanded, his little princess, that he sing the Little Light song, and he sang: This little light of mine, I’m going to let it shine...this little light of mine, I’m going to let it shine, let it shine, let it shine, let it shine...

      Let your father go now, the beast said from the doorway. Well, her name wasn’t beast, not really, but that was how the father thought of her, especially since she was driving him far away from his little girl, forcing him out into the night. Was second class really all that bad, if he really was second class, which the beast would never be able to convince him that he really was, but who knows, maybe in the grand scheme he really was second class. Still, he didn’t think so, he didn’t believe there were classes, not with his Father.

      Bronte went rigid. She wriggled out of his arms and he made a desperate snatch to capture her, but she was gone, fleeing to her room, where she would cry herself to sleep, but she wouldn’t let him see that, oh no, she wouldn’t let him know that she loved him so desperately, because she blamed him, she did, because he wouldn’t cross over and meet Mami halfway, it would be so easy to do it, Bronte herself had done it, but not her Papa, he was stubborn, Mami said so. Papa just wouldn’t do it, like Santa Paul said he should, poor Papa, he wasn’t bad, Bronte knew, she felt it with every molecule of her being.

      He watched her go, the lump that wasn’t in his throat a minute ago as he sang This Little Light of Mine was now back and he was on the verge of tears, on the verge of begging the beast, but he wouldn’t, no he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t bow down before her huge proud breasts, never, not today, not tomorrow, not ever, for forever.

      Mami crossed her arms over said ample breasts and leaned against the doorjamb. I think you should be going, now, Christian.

      He rose and met her at the door. For a moment she did not move. It was as if she wanted something from him. She wanted him to do something. Like grab her, shake her, shake some sense into her mule head, the beast, but then she moved, to the side, and he squeezed past, and he could smell her, and he had to admit that he wanted her, even now, even though they hadn’t been together like that in more than a year, not since Michelle was born. He walked from his house and out to the little economy-sized pick-up truck—Chevy Luv, and love was so far from him, just like in some corny country-western song, only he had no dog to stare gloomy-eyed from the rearview window as he drove away into the night—and he ducked into the tiny cab, with all his possessions in the world under a tarp in the little truck bed, and he did that, he drove away into the night, with no sad-eyed dog to stare out behind him.

      But Mami’s eyes watched. Tears streaked her still thin face, and her shoulders shook, and her ample bosom quivered as her big heart felt like it was ripping down the middle inside her body. And Bronte watched, too. She saw the little red truck drive into the night. She watched until the little red lights from the back end of the truck were gone, gone, gone forever, and then she collapsed upon her bed and wept. She wished she’d said good-bye, she wished that she had kissed him, one

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