Gather the Sentient (23 page)

CHAPTER

40

THOMAS

Thursday, October 6

Baltimore

After he and Mia discovered the possible prophecy psychic off the guru’s list, Thomas sent three emails and left twice as many voicemail messages on what he assumed was the woman’s phone.  Over a week later, he still hadn’t heard back from her and was beginning to lose hope.  Worse yet was that while Mia worked tirelessly on what she described as a ‘hellish workload’ at the station, he hadn’t discovered any other potential matches from the stack of papers still piled atop his mother’s kitchen counter beside the toaster and the recycling bag.

“You were up late again last night,” Mildred commented as she stirred the milk into her breakfast coffee before sliding the half-gallon of 1% in his direction.  “Been working on lots of schoolwork?”

He poured a splash of the milk in his own mug and took a steamy sip.  “Something like that.”

She looked at him expectantly, as if waiting for a legitimate explanation, and he averted his gaze out the window, feigning concern for their neighbor wrestling her garbage can to the street.  In the interest of keeping things between them simple, he hadn’t divulged any information about the prophecy or even his own abilities.  He knew how she felt about ‘the supernatural’ and ‘the occult,’ so until he’d wrapped his head around the situation on his own, he hadn’t felt comfortable bringing her into the fold.

The way she looked at him now, it was as if she already knew.

“Couldn’t help but notice that pile of papers you’ve been poring over, like the answers to the universe are locked inside.  And I don’t snoop, because it’s not my place, but if there’s something you want to talk about, I’m always here to listen.”

He turned to face her.  Saw the kindness in her eyes.  The same kindness that brought him out of the darkness of the foster care system and into the light of a loving home.  He knew in that moment he should have confided in her months ago, because perhaps if he had, he wouldn’t feel so helpless now.

The story of his abilities and the prophecy and the search for the other prophetic psychics spilled out of him, and the room was awash with all the things he’d been too scared to say and some he hadn’t even allowed himself to think.  When he finished, she stared at him, unblinking.

“Do you hate me?” he asked.

“How could I?” she replied.

“Because all of this stuff… all of these abilities and prophecies and good and evil and end of the world…”  He trailed off, unable to say what he was really thinking about how all of those things were so out of line with Mildred’s beliefs.

“‘Beloved, do not believe every spirit, but test the spirits to see whether they are from God, for many false prophets have gone out into the world.’  John 4:1.”

He was aware his mouth was gaping open and he snapped it shut.

“‘Do not despise prophecies, but test everything; hold fast what is good.’  1 Thessalonians 5:20-21.”

They stared at one another for several seconds until the weight of expectation became too great to bear.  “What does that mean?  Do you think the prophecy is good?  Or bad?” he asked finally.

“It doesn’t matter what I think, Thomas.  It only matters what you believe.  In your heart.”

He considered this.  How the prophecy made him feel in his heart.  But before he could respond to her, she continued.

“The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

This particular line was a favorite of hers, a way of making sense of the incomprehensible.  Perhaps it was time for him to begin subscribing to the belief as well.

“So then you think it could be true?  You think I should keep searching for the others?”

She took a sip of her coffee, which he imagined was now completely cold, and reached her hand across the table, placing it on top of his.  “I don’t know anything about this prophecy outside of what you’ve told me.  But it sounds to me as if the simplistic language of the prediction is not out of line with the truths I’ve come to believe.  In fact, I’ve always found the best thing to do when I’m unsure about something is to compare what is said with what the Word of God says.  If it contradicts the teachings, throw it out.  If it agrees with the Bible, pray for wisdom and discernment for how to apply the message.”

“And what about my ability?  Do you think it’s…”

“Unholy?” she finished for him.

He scrunched his nose at the distinct negative connotation of the word.  “I was going to say bad, but yeah, unholy.”

“Do
you
think it’s a bad thing?”

He shrugged.

She squeezed his hand lightly with her arthritic fingers.  “Thomas, God gives everyone gifts.  Abilities to get through this life.  Your music, for example.”

He scoffed.  His ability to play a sonata certainly wasn’t going to usher in the apocalypse.

“Some people can paint.  Others can sing or write or build bridges that don’t fall down.  So if I believe God gave people those sorts of gifts, who am I to say whether He has the power to give you the ability to sense danger?”

It made sense, what she was saying, and he felt better.  Not only that he was no longer keeping such a large part of his life from her, but also that maybe things weren’t as bad as they seemed.

Later that afternoon, in the middle of his Music, Technology, and Culture class, his phone began vibrating in his pocket.  He initially ignored it, knowing everyone he cared to talk to knew he was in class, but then reconsidered, thinking perhaps Lanying was calling with news about Salomon.  Under the desk, he checked the incoming number and immediately recognized the area code as the same one he’d been calling in an attempt to reach the psychic from the list.  He leapt from his desk, knocking it over in the process, and raced into the hallway to answer before the call went to voicemail.

“Hello?” he said breathlessly.

“Is this Thomas Pritchett?”  The woman’s voice was deep.  Older.  With a thick, southern drawl.  Not what he was expecting.

“Yes, Ma’am, it is,” he replied.  “Is this Lillian Hall?”

“No.  As a matter of fact, it’s not.  This is her mother.  But before you go gettin’ all excited, I’m only calling to tell you, you better quit calling here, do you understand?”

His heart was beating out of his chest in anticipation of a possible connection with Lillian.  “Yes, Ma’am.  I understand.  But I was really hoping to speak with Lillian herself.  Do you know how I might get in touch with her directly?”

She made a noise which sounded like a cackle.  “Oh no, dear,” she said, her voice venomous.  “That ship sailed long ago.  If you want to contact my daughter, you’ll need more luck than I’ve had.  That girl disappeared six years ago without the courtesy of a phone call or a kiss goodbye.  Only way I know she’s alive is when I see her pop up on the news from time to time.”

“The news?”

“Oh, yes.  With that friend of hers, doing all that hocus pocus stuff she does.  Smoke and mirrors, I promise you that.  Lillian is a liar.  She’s always been a liar.  She’ll always be a liar.  I’d advise you to stay away from her.  That girl’s nothing but trouble.”  Her voice had reached a fevered pitch, but she paused then, as if to compose herself.  “Anyway, I need you to stop callin’ here, or next time I’ll be callin’ the police.”

“Sorry to have bothered you, Ma’am,” he said, but before he finished, the line had gone dead.

CHAPTER

41

SALOMON

Friday, October 7 – Monday, October 10

Democratic Republic of Congo

Salomon wiped the sweat from his forehead with the same bandana he kept with him in the fields.  Only today he wasn’t working in the fields, burying tiny seeds in rows beneath the soil.  No.  Today he was burying his family.

He had lain with them, among the smoldering rubble of his village, until the sun rose and the activity of fellow survivors beckoned him from his waking nightmare.  He was aware of someone standing over him, but he didn’t move until they kicked at his back with their toes.

“Salomon?” came a small voice.  “Are you alive?”

It was Petia, a neighbor girl, not more than ten years old.  He rolled over on his side to get a better look at her face and saw it was charred and tear stained.

“I ran into the forest,” she told him, by way of explanation.  “So did Merveille.  But we’re the only two.”

He didn’t have to ask to know the rest of her family was dead, just like his own family, who were now lying in coagulated pools of their own blood.  And so as much as he wanted to remain face down on the earth, until the ground itself consumed him, he forced himself to rise, gathering Petia into his arms.

“It’s okay,” he told her.  “We’re going to make everything alright.”

Now he found himself along the edge of the jungle with the handful of other survivors, digging graves for those they lost.  Each shovelful of dirt strengthening his muscles as well as his resolve.  Educated in the ways of science, history, and law, he knew for every step forward his countrymen made toward a peaceful existence, there had always been someone waiting just around the corner to drive them two steps back.  It was the way it always had been.  It was the way it always would be.

Unless someone finally took a stand.

As he dragged his family’s remains to the shallow grave, Lanying’s words repeated like a mantra inside his head.  “I believe you and I were born into this destiny for a reason.  To fulfill the ancient prophecy and usher in a world without fear or pain or oppression.”

If he was ever in need of a world without pain, it was in this moment.

He kneeled now, inside the pit, beside Manu and Keicha, unable to perform the proper burial rituals of his people due to the sheer volume of dead requiring his attention.  There would be no wailing or dancing or ceremonial washing.  Instead, he merely kissed each of their faces, a final ‘love touch’ bestowed upon them, ushering them into the life beyond.

When Marceau arrived, right on schedule in three days’ time, each of the bodies had already been interred and the few remaining survivors waited for him with Salomon beneath a makeshift lean-to of his construction.  He watched the horror wash across Marceau’s face as he took in the scene – the circular rings of scorched earth where the villager’s huts once stood, the primitive noises of the jungle now overtaking any human conversation, and the devastation in Salomon’s eyes.

Salomon rose as he approached.  They exchanged only embraces, as they were both clearly at a loss for words.

Finally, Marceau said, “Rebels?”

Salomon nodded.

Marceau gestured toward the others.  “These are all who remain?”

He nodded again, biting his bottom lip in an attempt to hold his tears at bay.

“And the rest?”

He pointed toward the clearing at the edge of the forest.  “I’ve already taken care of them.”

The silence between the men spoke volumes as they walked together across what had once been the village center.  Marceau knelt before the mass grave, the earth still unsettled and lumpy, and bowed his head in prayer.  After making the sign of the cross, he rose again and turned to Salomon.

“What now?”

Salomon shook his head.  “I’ve been giving it a lot of thought.  There aren’t enough of them to start again.  They can’t sustain themselves.  They won’t survive.  The only good option is for them to find homes within another village.  Maybe one of the others from the co-op.”

Marceau’s brow creased severely between his eyes.  “They won’t survive?  What about you, my friend?”

“I’m not staying.”

“Here in Katanga?”

“No,” Salomon replied.  “Here in Africa.”

That afternoon, as Marceau made phone calls to other World Vision team leaders in an attempt to secure homes for the survivors within other co-op communities, Salomon logged on to his email account using the truck’s satellite Wi-Fi.

There were three new messages from Lanying, each of them with further explanation of the prophecy and his part in it.  At the end of the third message was a phone number.  He checked the time, and although it was almost 11pm in Shanghai, placed the call from Marceau’s phone.

A small, weary voice answered the phone.  “Hello?”

“Lanying?”

“Yes?  Salomon?  Is that you?”

“It is.”  He had to concentrate on his English.  “It’s nice to hear your voice,” he told her.

She laughed good-naturedly.  “It’s nice to hear yours too.  How are things?”

The casual nature of the question caught him off guard.  It was clearly meant as a conversation starter.  A way to break the ice.  But he could hardly pretend everything was fine.

“Actually, Lanying, things are not well.  Not well at all.”

She fell silent, and for a moment he thought she’d disconnected.  “I’m afraid to ask,” she said at last, “but has there been a fire?”

“Yes.”

“I saw it,” she said.  “But since I couldn’t make out any faces or the surroundings, I didn’t know exactly what I was seeing.  Is everyone okay?”

He closed his eyes to compose himself.  He needed to keep it together.  Before he lost his nerve, he told her all of it, from the very beginning.  By the time he finished, he could hear her sniffling.

“I’m so sorry, Salomon,” she said.  “What a terrible tragedy.”

They were silent for a moment and after taking several cleansing breaths, he felt comfortable enough to broach the subject which was ultimately the reason for his call.

“I’m leaving Africa.  Forever.  There’s nothing more for me here.  No life.  No family.  No friends.  I don’t know where exactly I need to go, but I know I’d like to go to Baltimore to meet the others.  And I’d like to meet you too.  But I don’t know how to do that.  I don’t have the money to buy a ticket and it’s a long way to the airport.  I’m afraid I’m going to need some help.”