The Beginning of a Beginning

By Michael S. Pendergast III

It would seem an odd way to approach the saga of creation. But history is alive and so is our unlikely hero, John O'Connell. A junior executive seeking his roots in Northern Ireland, Jack finds that even a good deed can be deadly. Now merely deceased, Jack learns the hard way that death isn't the end.

Thus begins the tale of an average man, murdered only to awaken between heaven and earth. Aided by an old sage, first mistaken for a madman, Jack finds roots he never imagined and the terrors of being caught-up in the war between Good and Evil. Narrating the sage, Jack's mentor enlists everyone who can help, from warrior angels and cherubs, to ex-slaves, atomic scientists, and even a resurrected Atlantean.

Yet everytime Jack tries to grasp this new 'life', another twist throws him for a loop. How can a mortal (especially a dead one) cope with natural mysteries, while living in an unnaturally mysterious place where telepathy and teleportation are normal, and even thoughts can become real? That's Jack's challenge, if he's up to it and if he's willing to pay the price, which is terrifyingly high indeed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 17, 2002
• ISBN: 9781469756813

Michael S. Pendergast III

Michael Pendergast is a retired B-52 aircraft commander and acquisition engineer, as well as a former instructor of philosophy at a well-known Mid-western Christian university, where he taught logic, introductory philosophy, and ethics. A philosopher and theologian, Major Pendergast holds degrees in engineering (with a minor in astrophysics), administration, philosophy, and international affairs. Widowed with three grown children, and now remarried, this graduate of Cornell University, Siena College, and the Air War University lives and works in Maine, where he devotes much of his time to writing. The method to his writing is to establish a gestalt to understand that science, philosophy, and theology are ultimately one -- with the goal of finding the real meaning of life.

Book preview

The Beginning of a Beginning

All Rights Reserved © 2002 by Michael S. Pendergast III

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

Writer’s Showcase

an imprint of iUniverse, Inc.

For information address:

iUniverse, Inc.

5220 S. 16th St., Suite 200

Lincoln, NE 68512

www.iuniverse.com

This is in part a work of fiction. Although inspired by actual events and states of affairs, the names, persons, places, and characters are fictional. Any resemblance to people living or deceased is purely coincidental. In some instances, however, the names of real people and places, without whom no history could have been told, have been used to authenticate the storyline.

ISBN: 0-595-23147-0

ISBN: 978-1-4697-5681-3 (eBook)

Contents

PREFACE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

CHAPTER 1

DEATH AND CREATION

CHAPTER 2

THE DOCTOR

CHAPTER 3

SERAPHIM, CHERUBIM, AND OPHANIN

CHAPTER 4

THE GREEN-EYED DEMON

CHAPTER 5

WAR IN HEAVEN

CHAPTER 6

PNEUMATA…AND DAIMONES

CHAPTER 7

THE EVIL PLAN

CHAPTER 8

ASSAULT ON A STAR

CHAPTER 9

INTERLUDE

CHAPTER 10

HETERODONTOSAURUS

CHAPTER 11

THE GREY MEN

CHAPTER 12

WORMWOOD

CHAPTER 13

THE SONS OF THE LAW OF ONE

CHAPTER 14

THE SONS OF BELIAL

CHAPTER 15

THE RED MEN

CHAPTER 16

AW, DAMN

EPILOGUE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Appendix of the Fundamental Particles

Glossary of Proper Names and Meanings

Glossary of Terms

PREFACE

Some may classify this novel as one of fiction, perhaps science fiction. Some as fantasy. Others may see it as faction, a work of historical fiction. Some may even choose to regard it as truth itself. Each of these assessments contains a measure of truth, but of course the complete and ultimate Truth is beyond my ability to either grasp or (were I miraculously able to somehow grasp it) relate. For myself, I can only hope that it does indeed contain a greater rather than lesser measure of truth on the scientific, philosophical, and even theological fronts. And while I sincerely believe that I have found some measure of this truth, in the end, I hope that my readers will find that this book presents that measure of truth as, if nothing else, a good tale.

Now, to the background of this tale. I began in this, the first of a trilogy of trilogies, with a story that had somehow materialized in my consciousness almost fully outlined from the start. Since then the effort to flesh out that outline has seemed to proceed under a geis: to begin rejoining three great disciplines (or perhaps three parts of a single discipline). These three, which long ago separated and went their own ways, are science, philosophy, and religion. None of the three, it seems to me, are able to stand alone; they constantly jostle shoulders with each other and intrude upon each other’s turf. Yet none of the three appear able to sustain the claim of being the sole inheritor and arbiter of truth. And just as certainly, where any one of these finds truth, it seems that it will also find the other two already standing there smiling and wondering what took it so long to arrive.

In the actual writing of this book, though the outline and many `facts’ were present from the start (like Diana on the half-shell), much research was required. I have made an effort to be as reasonably accurate as possible when representing such scientific theories as the ‘Big Bang’, while simultaneously trying to go beyond mere theory. This accounts for my description of how the universe inflated twice (not the one time postulated by science), or how the large scale structure of the universe was set, or where dark matter is hidden. In similar ways I have also tried to be reasonably accurate when dealing with philosophy and religion.

At the same time, I must admit that I have refused to be bound by any one of these three, especially when they appear to conflict. Some few times I have attempted to find a median—and sometimes I have played favorites or picked what `felt’ right to me. Furthermore, in some cases I have refused to do any research what-so-ever, especially when dealing with such mundane facts as whether there is a St. Simion’s or a Crown-in-Shield Inn in Londonderry and other similar types of facts. In the end, these type facts really don’t seem important (though in this assessment, it is possible that I may be wrong).

In this novel the reader should be able to discern that while I am a big fan of science, I am also paradoxically dubious of most of the scientists of today. Frankly, too many seem to have agendas in which truth for its own sake is left out of the mix. I was trained in the scientific and engineering methods, which are basically the same procedures looked at from different viewpoints. To me any answer to a scientific question or an engineering problem is acceptable, regardless of whose ox is gored…provided only that the answer is true. Whether one likes that answer is another question altogether, and one that ought to be irrelevant to the search.

Now an entering hypothesis is a useful thing to have, but the final theory must be determined in a totally impartial manner based on verifiable, reproducible facts only. This was how Newton developed the Laws of Motion, which are true…from a certain point of view. It was also how Einstein showed that those laws of Newton’s were false (or perhaps a better word would be incomplete)…again, from a certain point of view, for relativistic mechanics is only more true (though that doesn’t make the laws of motion any less useful in the practical, everyday world which is lived at relatively low speed), but not absolute Truth.

So while I am enthralled by things scientific, I am not impressed by the way scientists all to often become trapped in their own dogmas. Scientific theory is merely a succession of true approximations, spawning ever more questions, but never the final, ultimate truth that was and is sought. Thus the scientific dogmas of today seem as doomed to be overtaken as the discarded dogmas of the past. As we learn more and more, past and present dogmas are overturned…and then overturned, and overturned again.

It therefore seems that the only thing which could be worse than a dogmatic scientist, mired in an approximation, is a scientist who will believe anything—even if it cannot be seen or heard, touched, tasted or smelt.

Yet here I walk a fine line, since the things of philosophy and religion are of just such a nature. ‘The Good’ that Plato discussed, those abstract concepts such as justice, friendship, and righteousness, are not some rock which occurs naturally or some artifact of man which can be held, touched, and felt (though some of man’s products do have a certain smell about them). Nevertheless, in some other manner, those self same things can be felt, touched, and passionately held on to…in some other manner. In a way, that is now my field of study.

I have talked about science almost exclusively thus far, yet, just as there are extremes in science, and scientists who are either rigidly dogmatic or uncertain what they actually believe in, there are also philosophers and theologians of both ilk as well. There are philosophers who see only one way of behaving or living. Every discipline has its own dogmatists, just as it has its relativists, who see everything as equally real or valid. In a similar way there are theologians who see only one set of narrow doctrines as true, and there are those who are so ecumenical as to accept all faiths as equally valid and sacred.

I hold neither extreme view, yet neither do I occupy some bland, lukewarm, middle-of-the-road position. As you read this book it will soon become apparent that I perceive all philosophies and religions as flawed, because they exist as fields of battle in the war between good and evil. I hold to a warrior philosophy and a warrior religion, which are evolving with time. Ultimately, however, I believe that this warrior philosophy and this warrior religion of mine are one and the same. And one which began long before my birth, and was, in this on-going war, assaulted and corrupted by the forces of evil in the hopes of destroying it and those who adhere to its precepts. As a result, we poor humans are at a disadvantage, for none of us clearly or perfectly know what the precepts of this philosophy-religion actually are…yet a few of us continue to fight to rediscover them.

We fight, and not merely against ‘forces’. We struggle not only against some inner force, which Nietzsche called gravity, or against intangible natural laws, but also against real, personal foes. So, please, do not mistake my tale about this struggle to be only some metaphor. It is not. I am deadly serious in describing actual entities, some good and some evil, which have lined up against one another…with us in the middle. And the middle is not a safe place to be.

For myself, I choose God’s side, all the while recognizing that in the short-term this is the worst of all choices, for evil presently holds sway over this world of ours. On the other hand, doesn’t God hold the high ground? And doesn’t military doctrine tell us that this is the ground to choose, if one must fight?

Finally, I believe it was Karl Barth who said that it is as blasphemous to define God as it is to deny Him. Yet, it seems to me, that God is a Being who desires to be known. And we, limited creatures that we are, know things through our definitions of them. Thus, without apology to any, save God Himself, I have and shall continue to risk blasphemy in order to know Him better. In order to become one who knows Him at all.

This will, I have no doubt, quite quickly become apparent to any who proceed further in this novel or the ones yet to come. Everywhere my goal is to picture an infinite God…yet every picture I can possibly present of Him, every description and every definition, is finite. Thus I am, from one point of view, doomed to fail. But even as I do so, I cannot help but believe, to have faith, that the God of me…that my God, will consider the shear impossibility of the geis under which I labor and somehow count my pitiful efforts as pleasing.

New Sweden, Maine

January, 2002

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

First of all I would like to acknowledge and thank all the teachers who helped me to learn how to discern truth and, more importantly, who taught me how to learn. Those who stand out in my memory most vividly include, Mmes. LaMontaigne and Couch at Howe Elementary School, Messrs. Simboli and Blodget at Central Park Junior High School, Messrs. Felthousen, Pringle, and Howard at Linton High School [all in Schenectady, New York], and last, but not least, Dr. Scott at the Los Angeles University Cathedral.

I also must thank my proof-readers. First, my sons, Daniel and Benjamin, who read the manuscript in its entirety. Chapter by chapter, both of them pointed out errors (especially misspellings, which they noted with glee since I have always criticized their spelling) and areas which needed clarification, as well as offering suggestions to make this story a better tale. And secondly, I must also thank Patrika Vaughn, of Acapella Press (Sarasota, Florida), who proofed and edited the manuscripts. While I accepted most of her recommendations, those that I did not heed (which, admittedly, would have made the novel easier to read) were passed on for reasons having to do not with grammar or style or even flow, but for philosophical, theological, or scientific reasons instead.

Finally, I must thank my wife, Kristiane, who not only proof-read the manuscript, but who also endured without complaint my preoccupation with writing this novel and all that accompanied it: the years of reading and study and research, as well as the hours spent hidden in my office writing and editing.

In the end, though there are many people to thank for helping, directly or indirectly, bring this project to fruition and making this novel what it is, the responsibility for any shortcomings are mine and mine alone.

CHAPTER 1

DEATH AND CREATION

In the Beginning was the Logos, and the Logos was with the God, and the Logos was [of the same substance as] God. John 1:1

lo•gos (lô’gos,-gos, log’os), n. (often cap.) Philos. the rational principle that governs and develops the universe. (See logotype)

log•o•type (lô’g/ tip’, log/-), n. 1. an identifying symbol (as for advertising). 2. a trademark, company name, or device. Also called logo.

The old man shuffled slowly down the lane, his hat pulled down tightly on his head. He held his head down and his shoulders hunched, as though he had been worn down by the cares of a lifetime. Perhaps it was only to ward off the coolness of the early evening.

It was just August, but already the hint of an early winter was present. Perhaps it was only a pocket of cold air, the remains of some ocean storm drifting ashore, the kind the North Atlantic is good at producing.

Around his neck the old man wore a muffler. It obscured half his face, which helped to ward off the chill. Its tattered ends hung over the back of his worn tweed jacket that, although neatly mended, had clearly seen better days. So had the old man, apparently, for in his right hand was a tattered paper shopping bag, with two wire handles. In its open top could be seen a worn but neatly folded white shirt and several pairs of socks. A plastic comb with several broken teeth and a toothbrush that was losing its bristles lay on top. Not much to show for a life.

After walking for a while he reached a point where the lane joined one of the main streets. He stopped for a moment and looked both ways. There wasn’t much to see. Mostly tenements in both directions. Buildings that had seen better days. It wasn’t the best part of Londonderry. It wasn’t the worst part either.

Though it was still light, there wasn’t much traffic, so the old man slowly shuffled across the street. This far north the sun didn’t set until quite late in the summer and the workday had ended hours ago. Most of the workers, both blue-collar and white, had long ago gotten home for dinner and were now watching the telly.

Reaching the other side of the street he turned left and shuffled towards a little square several blocks away, just across from Saint Simmion’s rectory and a block past a local public house, the Crown-in-Shield.

***

John O’Connell, known to all his friends as Jack, set down his glass of beer without much relish. He had been in Ireland for several weeks now, but he still couldn’t get used to Irish or English beers, and their ales and stouts were worse still. He stubbornly refused to drink the American brews he could have gotten at home. He hadn’t come all the way from Boston to drink American beer in Ireland. In fact he hadn’t come all the way from Boston to drink beer at all, but to look for his roots.

Jack was thirty-five, but looked younger. Paradoxically he looked older as well. Earlier in the summer his happy smile had lit the darkest room, cheering everyone in sight. He had looked almost boyish. But Jack wasn’t smiling now. He was tired and lonely. Lonely and looking older than his years as he morosely stared into his beer.

His mother and father had died in a car crash a few years earlier. That had hurt badly. But this summer had been the last straw. His only remaining kin, his grandmother, had died. True, he had lots of friends, but she had been the only other person he was really close to. Now she was gone and he was alone. Was it any wonder that he had come looking for his roots? Was it any wonder that he came to Londonderry, from which his grandmother had come so many years earlier, to escape the strife of the Irish Rebellion and the reprisals of the Black and Tans?

One last sip of beer, he thought. The old priest who might know something about his family should be returning from his evening rounds soon. He’d wait for him in the rectory. Better no beer than this dark, warm, bitter stuff. And better to be alone and lonely than in a crowd that reminded him how alone and lonely he really was.

***

The old man paused in front of the large windows of the Crown-in-Shield Pub and looked at the knots of men enjoying themselves and at others drinking away their troubles. He quickly noticed a foreigner, only half finished with his beer, and just as quickly dismissed that well dressed man as unimportant.

Setting down his shopping bag, he bent over to slowly tie his shoe. The ratty shoelace broke in his hand.

With the sigh of one long accustomed to disappointment he reached into the shopping bag, fumbled about for a moment, and then pulled out a short piece of twine. Not long enough for a shoelace. The old man carefully threaded it through only the top eyelets of his shoe and then, with shaking hands, tied a good, tight knot. There was no chance that this shoe would come off now.

Looking again through the front windows, he almost licked his lips, then turned and shuffled towards the park.

***

Jack lowered his half-full glass to the bar and also sighed. As he turned to leave he saw the old man outside stand up and shuffle past the entrance. He thought nothing of it until he reached the sidewalk. Glancing to his left, to avoid bumping into anyone, Jack saw the forgotten shopping bag.

Half turning to his right Jack saw the worn old man leaving. It suddenly struck him that poor old man was probably losing everything he had in this world. Sir, he said. Sir, you’ve forgotten your bag.

The old man didn’t hear him. He continued to shuffle single-mindedly away.

Jack picked up the bag in his left hand and went after the old man. The bag wasn’t very heavy. About what a any bag of old clothes and a pair of shoes would weigh.

Old man, he called somewhat louder now, but still keeping his voice down somewhat. It was evening after all, and he was a guest in this country. No use creating a commotion and starting more ugly American stories.

In that he was quite successful, for while the old man still didn’t hear him, apparently no one in the pub noticed either.

With a half smile Jack thought of his grandmother. She’d been hard of hearing too in her last years, and maybe just a wee bit senile as well. It would take only a few seconds to do a good deed for someone like her, so Jack hurried the few steps needed to catch the poor old soul.

Jack reached out with his right hand to touch the old man’s right shoulder. Hey, sir, you’ve for…

He never finished his sentence. Even before Jack’s hand touched him, the old man crouched slightly and spun left and around with an amazing swiftness. He slapped Jack’s outstretched hand away with the back of his left hand. Almost simultaneously, his right arm rocketed outwards, his fist slamming into Jack just under his rib cage.

The air in Jack’s lungs exploded outwards. His vision clouded. He collapsed to the pavement, gasping, but making no further sound.

The old man never saw Jack hit the pavement. He was ten yards away and walking briskly towards the corner. As he passed the rectory entrance a thin, middle-aged priest was just leaving. The old man bumped into the priest and pushed himself forcibly past him without so much as a Pardon, Father. The old man then turned the corner and disappeared.

It took the priest a good fifteen seconds to notice Jack, lying perfectly still in the middle of the sidewalk. Then he moved quickly.

Reaching Jack’s side the priest could see that he was alive, but had no idea of what his trouble was. Jack for his part could see the priest looking right at him, but couldn’t speak. He couldn’t breath and soon he fearfully realized that fact. Why weren’t his lungs working? If he couldn’t take a breath soon he’d pass out and die. He had to breath. Try. Try harder. Breath. Breath. Please, God, thought Jack, save me. Jesus let me breath again.

Just as panic was beginning to set in, the temporary paralysis of his diaphragm faded and Jack’s lungs sucked in a great, fiery draught of air. That first breath hurt like hell. God, it felt good. Several more deep, quick breaths followed, each hurting less than the one before, but none feeling quite so good as that very first one. God, it was good to be alive, to move past the fear of impending death.

Gently stroking Jack’s brow, the priest repeated for the third time, What happened, my son? Are you all right?

Finally Jack nodded. Old man, he croaked awkwardly, and coughed hoarsely. Old man forgot… he sputtered pointing towards the shopping bag, then coughed some more.

The priest looked at the worn shopping bag, then down at Jack, confused. This stranger was well dressed. Why was he concerned about some tattered old bag of rags? The priest knew that he was missing something, but what? Then remembering the rude man, he added it up. His expression slowly changed from concern and confusion to fear, then to horror as he realized what was about to happen.

Saints preserve us, he said, grabbing at Jack’s shoulders to pull him up.

Coughing and still hurting, Jack didn’t noticed the priest’s changing expression. Nor did he hear the priest’s last prayer, made in vain.

Neither Jack nor the priest heard the crack of the small detonator, hidden in the old man’s shopping bag. Neither heard the roar as the half kilo of plastic explosive detonated, destroying parts of both the rectory and the pub. Neither noted the many dead and injured in the rubble which had once been the lively Crown-in-Shield.

Neither Jack nor the priest was among those half-buried victims. The blast blew them down the sidewalk towards the corner. Not much of them was ever found, for not much remained of either, so close had they been to the shopping bag. Both Jack and the priest were dead. But Jack didn’t know that yet.

***

Yet John O’Connell was dead.

He was dead and he had the granddaddy of all headaches. He lay still, his eyes closed, his ears ringing and his head spinning. It had been a long time since he’d felt this low.

He opened his eyes and tried to focus on the ceiling, then realized that he wasn’t in his or any other bed. Jerking himself to a half sitting position, he rolled onto his right elbow and almost stuck his face into a mass of scraggly grey hair.

Ack, Jack yelled, startled as he lost his balance and fell onto his back. That hurt. He was still weak, though he hadn’t had time to think about why that was yet.

Slowly Jack pulled himself back up and rolled carefully towards the thing on his right. It was just an elderly man with long hair and a full beard. The man wore dingy linen robe and was squatting down close besides him. You startled me, Jack said accusingly, and looked around, still dazed.

Jack was in a small grassy field. The sky was a grey overcast. Just as well, he thought. Bright sunlight wouldn’t help this headache any. He was apparently alone, except for the silent old man…wearing a bathrobe? Who wears a bathrobe for a country outing? I shouldn’t even be in the country. Where was…where was Londonderry? Something’s not right. Jack looked at the sky. Overcast or not, it was clearly daytime. It should be darker by now; much darker.

Then Jack remembered. That old SOB mugged me, and I was only trying to help him, he said incredulously.

He turned to the squatting man. That bastard nearly killed me! Still confused, Jack asked Why aren’t I in a hospital? Where are the cops? Slowly he looked around. After a long, puzzled pause he asked, Where the hell am I?

The elderly man shushed him gently and said, Be at peace, young man. Calm yourself. You are in a, how should I say it? You are in a place of rest, so to speak.

A resting place? A bearded guy in a dirty bathrobe in a field? A rest home! God, thought Jack, I get mugged and wind up in a loony bin with someone who may be a certifiable nut case. Two weird old men in one day. Just what I really need. God, I hope this one’s more harmless than the last one.

Jack looked briefly at the man, then glancing down at the ground he caught sight of his own clothing. His suit coat and pants were shredded. He lifted what was left of his lapel. His shirt was no better. Hell, he thought, even a rest home would have changed his clothing for a hospital gown at least. He sighed.

I’m confused, admitted Jack, looking to the old man for some clue. How did I get here? And who are you? he asked. That other old man, the bastard, might have been deaf and senile, Jack thought, but he did pack one hell of a right jab. But this guy here is something else again.

After a moment, as though to let Jack finish his thought, the old man answered, I am Lemuel, son of Jorai. I came to be here in the same way as you did. I died faithful to the Lord. As did you, obviously.

Jack sighed, lay back and closed his eyes. He shook his head, and didn’t notice that his headache was rapidly disappearing. Not a certifiable nut case, he thought. The certifiable nut case of all the world. The guy they wrote the book about. And he’s here with me.

Oh God, he said quietly, I’m lost in Neverland with a religious nut.

No, Lemuel said understandingly. If you were lost, you would be in the other place. And as for religion, we don’t have much use for that here.

It’s gotta be a concussion, thought Jack. A concussion or drugs. Drugs. Hmmm? Some sort of medication? That’s it! I’m in a hospital and some sort of drug is causing this hallucination. What the hell. If it’s all in my head, then this guy doesn’t exist. And if he doesn’t exist, he can’t hurt me. I might as well go with the flow until the medicine wears off and my head clears. Hell, I paid the price for admission. I ought to at least watch the show. At least it’s not boring. Weird, yes—boring definitely not.

Once again Jack levered himself onto his elbow and faced the man. Okay, he said, it’s obvious that this isn’t hell, but it’s not like any heaven I ever heard of either. I mean, really. What kind of heaven has no use for religion? Besides, you have to die to go to heaven and I don’t remember dying. I thought that I was going to die, but I didn’t! I’d know it if I were dead. Right?

Lemuel looked at Jack. This is going to be a little harder than most of my assignments, he thought. Still, it would not take much time to show this John O’Connell where he is now. It will be after that that the tutoring will really begin. This young man does not understand because he was killed instantaneously, just after he decided that he was not going to die after all. Hmmm? Most people know they are dead when they get here. Oh yes, a few try to deny it briefly, but even they can not avoid the issue for very long. But that is not the case here. The question is how do I present the truth in this case?

Right? repeated Jack a little more questioningly.

That is correct, young man, Lemuel said. In this place Truth reigns, so if you were dead, you’d quickly grasp that fact. So, let us examine your life. What are the last memories you had before awakening here?

Okay, said Jack. I’ll play your game. It was just after I was mugged. Remember?

Lemuel nodded.

I was laying on the sidewalk. Someone, I don’t know who, was bending over me.

A Catholic priest, said an angel sitting just behind and to the side of Lemuel. He went to the other place, he concluded and returned to his pastime of drawing designs in the dirt with one finger.

Although he was clearly in Jack’s line of sight, Jack could not see him. Neither could he hear him. Lemuel had no such impediments.

It was a Catholic priest, repeated Lemuel. Go on. Why were you lying on the sidewalk?

Hmmm? pondered Jack. It could have been a priest at that. I was near a rectory. And now that I think about it he did have on a black, well, a very dark colored suit at least. Hard to judge dark colors in the evening shadows. He could have been a priest. How did you know that?

Later, said Lemuel. Why were you lying on the sidewalk?

Remembering the mugging, the heat returned to Jack’s cheeks. I was mugged, Jack stated firmly. You just said you remembered. I told you about that SOB. He decked me so fast I still don’t know what happened. For a while there, Jack said quietly and sheepishly, I thought I was going to die because I couldn’t breath. But the wind was just knocked out of me for a few seconds. I got my breath back. I didn’t die, he announced firmly.

After a momentary pause Lemuel asked, Why did he hit you?

I don’t know, Jack said, confused.

Lemuel stared at him, saying nothing. Jack looked down at the dirt under his hand. Why did he hit me? Jack wondered. What happened?

I’d just come out of this bar, Jack muttered more to himself than to Lemuel. There was an old shopping bag full of clothes outside on the pavement. I thought they belonged to this old man. He wasn’t far away. Just walking up the street, not too easily, you know. I thought he might be, ah, you know, kind of absent-minded? he said half-embarrassed, as he surreptitiously glanced at the old man’s bathrobe.

Senile, said Lemuel without any self-consciousness.

Uh, yeah, said Jack, now fully embarrassed and quite conscious that his cheeks felt hot. Quickly trying to change the subject, he continued. I shouted to him, but I guess he didn’t hear me. So I grabbed the bag and ran after the guy, then pow! Before I know what’s what, I’m flat on my face. What more’s there to remember?

Let me summarize, said Lemuel. You shout at an old man who’s not very far away and he’s too deaf to hear you…but not too deaf to hear you running after him. You hurry after this same old man who is so feeble that he has difficulty walking…but not so weak as to have any difficulty in leaving you, how did you say it? Flat on your face?

Jack didn’t like the way this conversation was going. He didn’t like the feel of this one little bit.

And, might I add, this frail old man left you in that condition so swiftly that you even now don’t fully remember how he did it. Is that not so? asked Lemuel.

Yes, that’s the truth of it, thought Jack slowly nodding. It wasn’t getting any better.

So, continued Lemuel, apparently this poor, deaf cripple wasn’t so cripple, or so deaf…

Or so poor, thought Jack? But if that little old guy wasn’t a little old guy, who the hell was he? protested Jack.

A good question. Lemuel’s tone was very disquieting.

I don’t like the feel of this, thought Jack again.

Why would someone disguise himself as, how shall I say it? As? Ah, as an innocuous, old man, said Lemuel. Then answering his own question, "Easily ignored. Everyone tries to ignore the elderly, especially the homeless old ones. Aging scares people…it’s a thing they can’t escape from…so

they ignore them and it as best they can.

Someone no one notices? said Jack. But, but I noticed him…

No he didn’t, said the angel. Not until he saw the bag.

…or did I? said Jack. No, you’re right. I noticed that old shopping bag first. It wasn’t until I started trying to figure out why a shopping bag would be sitting abandoned on the sidewalk that I noticed the little old man. ‘The little old man.’ That’s not right, but I guess I’ll keep calling him that for lack of a better description.

A better description, said Lemuel neutrally, is something you’ll have for yourself in practically no time at all.

That uncomfortable feeling, forgotten for a moment, came rushing back into Jack’s consciousness.

Who would have reason to disguise himself as an innocuous old man, and feebly walk away from possessions, absent-mindedly forgotten? led Lemuel

Alarm bells slowly started ringing way back in Jack’s mind. What was the name of that movie I saw. An old spy thriller? One of the bad guys had disguised himself as…as a mailman because no one notices mailmen. Or old homeless men? Okay…no, wait. He couldn’t remember what had happened next. Damn! I’m still missing something.

Who, continued Lemuel, would leave his bag in front of a crowded pub and assault someone trying to return it?

Damn. Jack really didn’t like the feel of this now. He didn’t like knowing that the answer was just out of reach, but he knew he didn’t want to know the answer anyway. And yet, he still couldn’t stop grasping for it.

Who, concluded Lemuel, would leave his bag in front of a crowded Irish pub…

Jack didn’t think anything this time. He felt it. A cold wave slowly made its way up his spine. As the chill reached his upper vertebrae, the short hairs on the back of his neck stood erect, and he shivered.

…a crowded Protestant pub in Northern Ireland?

Jack shivered. Intellectually he knew that he was dead. Shit, he said incredulously. A terrorist. A fucking terrorist bomber killed me, and I didn’t even know it!

Lemuel remained silent, letting Jack slowly absorb the truth. It didn’t take long, for as Lemuel had so accurately observed Truth did in fact reign here.

***

Shit, Jack said again. I don’t feel dead, but that explanation does have the feel of…rightness. He looked again at his tattered clothes. So, it’s true. I’m dead. Everything fits. And a bomb that close to me couldn’t have helped but blow me to kingdom come. An appropriate saying, he thought in passing.

Yet here I am, apparently in one piece. You said this isn’t heaven and it sure as hell isn’t hell either. It’s not Limbo, at least not the place the nuns described to me when I was a kid. So where on God’s green earth am I?

Lemuel just looked at him calmly.

Jack felt his forehead. His headache was almost gone and, he noticed, his head felt solid to his touch. So did his chest and arms. "And what am I? I don’t feel like some disembodied spirit."

As Lemuel looked on, he extended his left arm and gestured around the field. "And what’s this? I’ve heard a few good ghost stories. If I’m haunting someplace, it should be where I died. I should be in Londonderry in a bombed out old pub if I were a self-respecting ghost."

Apparition, stated Lemuel.

Huh, said Jack only half hearing him.

Apparition, he again stated. A ghost is by definition a formless entity. You, obviously, have a body and head. You have arms and legs, therefore, you could not be a ghost, had you died and remained on earth as you hypothesize. Were your hypothesis correct, which it is not, you would be an apparition, an entity with the form of a man.

Right, said Jack skeptically.

Besides, said the old man, there are no real ghosts or apparitions, just daemons and devils who sometimes create that fiction for their own foul purposes. But they’re not allowed here because this is a sanctuary. For you, for the next seven days, this is a place of rest, as I have said. Here you are safe. There’s none here but those who died in faith, except for the angels, of course.

Right, said Jack, this time openly sarcastic. He looked at Lemuel, again trying to judge the man’s sanity.

Jack could clearly see Lemuel. His face was old, but his eyes were bright and clear. There was no hint of madness in them, so what was he to think?

Jack could also see the field behind Lemuel. One second there was no one there. The next second, on Lemuel’s right, there was a powerful man squatting in the dirt and looking right through him.

Right, the angel stated with a certainty that allowed no contradiction.

Jack jumped half a foot into the air and fell on his face, scared half witless.

Lemuel looked over his shoulder at the angel. Raphael, he said calmly, I think you enjoyed doing that.

The angel shrugged noncommittally and stood up, brushing his hands on his pristine white robe. It remained perfectly clean. He needed to learn a little respect, he replied with just the hint of a mischievous grin showing.

Walking over, Raphael said Get up John O’Connell. He bent down and stood Jack up as if he weighed nothing at all. It’s not right that a man be on his face before me. Besides, you still have questions for Lemuel and can’t ask them with a mouth full of dust.

Leaving Jack standing, half dazed, the angel turned to Lemuel. And I, said Raphael, have other business to attend to since you clearly have no further need of me. Until next we meet, sir, he said as he strode away.

Until next time, my friend, replied Lemuel, who had stood and then turned back to Jack.

Who…who was that? asked Jack awkwardly as he picked some grit off of his tongue.

Raphael is the archangel who presides over the spirits of men. He is responsible for bringing the spirits of all who die to their appointed place. It was he who conveyed you here at your death, Lemuel said.

Recalling the priest who was with him, Jack asked, The priest who died with me as well?

Yes

And were there others who died in the explosion? asked Jack. Did he take them here as well?

No, answered Lemuel sadly. Very few come here.

Then where?

They were taken to the other place, said Lemuel. A place much like the Limbo you spoke of, except that from there there is no atoning of one’s sins. No salvation. All any one of them would need to do to escape would be to cry out ‘Lord save me,’ and they would be free. But not one will ever do so. Instead they will curse Him who is their savior without ever knowing who they curse. Thus the suffering there is only a prelude of worst to come after the final judgment.

And our judgment, asked Jack fearfully?

Our judgment has already come and past in He who stood in our place.

Jack thought about this for some time, partially relieved and thoroughly awed by the thought. And the priest, he asked?

He went to that other place.

A man of God, Jack asked appalled? How could he have gone to such a place? How do you know?

Raphael told me before you were fully conscious, said Lemuel. He sat with me and helped me plan your orientation to your new, uh, situation. As to how, regrettably many so called men of God go thusly, having faith in the works of men or the traditions of their religion, but none in God himself or his Son, our savior.

Then how did I get here, asked Jack confused. I’ve never been especially religious. I don’t go to church regularly. Why me?

Raphael said that in the last moment you cried out to God to save you and to his Son that your breath not be lost. God is very jealous that the breath He breathed into man not be lost. Your prayer was a good one, and though you died, your prayer was answered. Besides, Raphael said that you never lost your faith in God, just your trust of religions.

My God, said Jack incredulously.

Close; ‘the God of me’ would be more accurate, stated Lemuel and waited.

Jack felt like his head was spinning. This was too much, too fast, and it didn’t all make sense yet.

A stray thought plucked at his consciousness. Lemuel, he said, you said that Raphael took the dead to their appointed places, but he obviously spent a good deal of time here with us. How could he do that and still do his job? There are…hell, there must be an enormous number of persons dying at any time. Thousands. Tens of thousands. How can I believe this?

Lemuel looked at Jack calmly. Here it comes, he thought. Young man, he said, you and I were born of the earth. We were creatures of time.

Jack did not catch the word ‘were.’

Minute followed minute, Lemuel continued, and day followed day. Raphael, however, was not born of the earth, but created in heaven. He is a creature less confined by time as we know it. I won’t pretend to understand how, but had he the need he could walk to the ends of the earth and back, spying on all the works of man, and be done in seconds. He paused, then smiled slyly. Besides, he has more than a few subordinates, he thought.

Jack gaped at him and wailed, I’m getting more and more confused. I think much more of this and my brain will turn to mush.

Hmmm, mused Lemuel as to himself. I thought your orientation was progressing rather well. Now you have me wondering what to cover next.

Jack, half dizzied by all that had occurred in so short a time, had again sat down near Lemuel. Although he was trying more to sort out his thoughts than listening to the old man, he did hear Lemuel. And he suggested, absent-mindedly, Why don’t you just start at the beginning?

Lemuel looked at Jack astonished. That will take quite a bit of time, he thought, but it will turn the trick. Why not, he said, inspired. Why not indeed.

What? said Jack.

I said ‘why not,’ Lemuel answered, then settled back and thought. After a while he stood up and said, Come. Walk with me.

This time Jack stood up by himself and together he and Lemuel walked in silence.

***

After they had fallen into a steady, comfortable pace Lemuel continued, Very well then, at the beginning. Long, long ago…

This sounds like the beginning of some children’s fairy tale, Jack muttered under his breath.

Lemuel, however, heard. Your fairy tales may often start out with the words ‘long, long ago,’ young man, he admonished, for the first time somewhat irritated, though ‘once upon a time’ is more common. The history that I am relating to you is, however, no fairy tale. And what I am doing is what you requested: starting at the beginning, or at least as close to the beginning as I can comprehend. That which I am trying to relate to you occurred outside of space-time as you perceive it. It didn’t and still doesn’t exist within the three dimensions with which we humans are familiar, and ultimately the That which is behind all things is outside of time as well. What I am now endeavoring to describe to you is eternal and unchanging, though things in it certainly have and will continue to change. The beginning of this history, as much of it as we can understand, began in heaven. And in ‘the now’ in which this beginning took place, heaven had already existed for an infinite period. A period which ended with the beginning you wanted to start at, he concluded accusingly.

Jack made an O with his mouth, but said precisely nothing. Me and my big mouth, he thought contritely.

Now, continued Lemuel sweetly, if I may continue?

He peered at Jack, who eventually nodded and said in a small voice, Yes, sir.

Well then, lectured Lemuel, this heaven is a real place. In ‘the now’ we are presently considering…

Excuse me, sir, Jack interrupted timidly, expecting to be flayed this time. But what’s ‘the now’?

Lemuel started to be irritated again, then smiled to himself. My apologies, young man, he said. I often think in Greek, which is a more precise language. But translations directly into your English sometime leave much to be desired. In this case I have inadvertently confused you.

‘The now’ refers to a particular moment in time. It accentuates it. But though proper in Greek, I forgot that it is not an acceptable phrase in English. So let me rephrase it.

He paused for a moment to recollect where he had been when Jack interrupted him, then continued. Heaven is a real place. As real as earth. Another pause. No. More real than the earth we know. And at the particular moment which we are considering, ‘the now’ so to speak, there was no other place anywhere. Only heaven existed, and it was a place of beauty. From the one sea, with its undulating swells and crashing breakers, to the one land, with its rolling plains and lazy rivers, mountains, valleys, and fast rushing streams, the beauty seemed to go on forever. And in fact it did, and in more ways than one.

The land and the sea lay together under a clear, blue sky. The land stretched without end in all directions. It was infinite, but it was also encircled by the infinite sea which cradled it.

"There was no sun in the eternal blue sky. Neither was there a moon or stars. Yet, heaven was not in darkness, but rather enjoyed perpetual light.

The sky itself was aglow, as were the sea and the land. Yet the light was not theirs. They produced no radiance, but merely reflected the aura of others. And what the infinite heaven reflected was and is wondrous and infinitely greater."

Jack listened, slowly becoming enthralled.

It would have to be, stated Lemuel, for heaven is the home of the Elohim, the Gods.

Gods? said Jack half to himself in confusion.

Lemuel ignored him and continued, They had always existed, do exist, and will always exist, for they are immortal. And in the center of the infinite heaven rises the Mountain of God. It is not the tallest of heaven’s mountains, nor is it the most rugged, nor the most beautiful. It is, however, the most awesome and majestic of all mountains, for upon it’s uttermost apex is the throne of the God, El, the Father of the Gods.

Gods? repeated Jack louder. Gods?

He fell silent as Lemuel favored him with a hard stare. Then Lemuel again continued, Had anyone concentrated his attention on that seat of power, he would have beheld a most magnificent object. The throne seemed to be made of gleaming, molten gold. Molten, yet without any hint of temperature. Liquid, yet it not only retained its shape, but held and was encrusted by numerous large, precious gemstones: deep purple amethysts, perfect blue sapphires, and pure white alabaster and chalcedony.

Where in hell is this going? Jack wondered.

But had anyone been there then, the throne would have been noticed as much as any piece of furniture is when a person of greatness preempts all attention. For seated on that throne, then as now, was the Shekinah Glory, the very presence of El.

Jehovah? thought Jack.

As if he could read his mind, Lemuel nodded and went on. Like a brilliant, golden flame He sat there, his radiance pervading all of heaven. And on his right stood a Young Man who was no less radiant than El himself.

Christ? hazarded Jack uncertainly.

Exactly, beamed Lemuel, and clad in only a plain, white linen robe, He stood straight and erect, yet was comfortably at ease. His entire attention was centered on serving and pleasing his father.

He was tall, but not unusually so, standing some five feet and ten inches tall. And he was lean and trim; not muscle-bound, but clearly strong and fit. Here, obviously, was a man at the peak of his physical abilities.

He wore his hair long to the shoulders, yet there was nothing feminine about him. Anyone looking at his face, framed by his brown hair and short beard, would have known at once that this man was all man. Moreover, he had in his face the look of one born to command. The look of quiet, competent authority.

Pushing his face close to Jack’s Lemuel continued quietly, Looking closer one would have been immediately drawn to his eyes. They gave him what men today would call the ‘look of eagles’. A sense of destiny. It was as if he could see in the far distance something that other men could not see. Closer still and one would notice that his eyes were blue. Not the blue of angry ocean waves, nor the blue of frigid glacial ice, nor even the blue of indolent summer skies. These eyes were a clear, gentle shade of blue, which looked as if they could see right into your very soul. Disturbing eyes, understanding eyes, reassuring eyes. And almost to himself, he added, I know. I have seen them.

Jack was silent for several moments, as was Lemuel who seemed to be reliving old memories.

Then Lemuel shook himself and continued, Then at that moment, at the beginning, El turned on his throne and smiled lovingly at the Young Man. ‘My son,’ He said, ‘the first of my appointed times approaches.’

And the Son of Man heard his Father’s words and knew perfectly what his duty was in order to fulfill his Father’s desires. He had always known his duty, but not the time when it would begin. Now he knew that too. ‘Yes, Abba,’ he said softly and also lovingly.

With that, said Lemuel, He turned and walked away from the throne, and another of the Elohim went with him. The other, one of the seven spirits that minister to El…

Seven spirits? Unconsciously Jack began to slow down. He fell behind Lemuel somewhat.

Lemuel went on, apparently not noticing Jack lagging. …had been with them throughout the exchange, but, as was usually the case, the other was unseen. Unseen, but not unfelt, the Gost led the Young Man out of heaven to a place without heat or cold. A place without dimension or time. A place that was no place. A place of darkness, in which the Young Man would be the light.

Lemuel looked over at Jack to make sure that he was still following his explanation, only then realizing that Jack had come to a dead stop several feet behind him.

Time out, said Jack shaking his head and forming a ‘T’ with his hands. Jehovah I understand. Christ I understand. The Holy Ghost I understand. But he said becoming more agitated, seven spirits? What gives?

You understand the Trinity? thought Lemuel somewhat sarcastically, knowing that Jack did not understand at all. I don’t think I will ever understand the paradox of the singleness and simultaneous multiplicity of the Elohim. He paused to collect his thoughts.

I understand your difficulty, young man, said Lemuel kindly. It is not easy for any of us. To try to comprehend the uncomprehendable is… Lemuel was at a loss for words, but struggled on. At least you, as a Catholic, have some preparation for the concept since you were taught about the Trinity. I, as a Jew, had a much more difficult time of it than you will. My tradition, our whole tradition, was one of monotheism. Jehovah…period. Yet if I can begin to grasp some of the more simple aspects, you should and will be able to grasp the more complex ones as well. So here it is at its most simple.

El, he said, "is The God. God the Father Almighty. But Christ and the seven spirits are God as well. Not The God, yet of the same substance as God."

And as to why there are seven spirits before the throne, I haven’t the faintest idea. But God speaks in diverse ways. He has spoken in the stars and in the stones. He gave voice to his prophets, and caused their words to be recorded. He spoke through his Son, our savior. And He speaks through numbers, he said quietly and reverently, as if revealing a mystery.

One, he said, "is the number of The God, for there is only one God Almighty."

Two is the number of the adequate witness, and in this particular case that refers to His Son, who adequately gives witness of his Father to man.

Three is the number of manifestation, here is the Trinity through which He has completely manifested himself to man.

Seven is the number of completion…and nine is the number of God maximized, he intoned and paused to let Jack take in and assimilate the whole concept.

One, Jehovah, plus one, our Messiah, plus seven, the spirits which complete the Elohim, the spirits who gathered around the throne, equals nine, God in all his fullness. God maximized.

Lemuel looked appraisingly at Jack. Do you understand, young man? he asked with some concern.

Jack didn’t say anything for a while. He stared at his hands, apparently counting on his fingers. He raised first one finger on his right hand, and then another. Then he raised all five fingers on his left hand, and looked at his right, where he raised two more fingers. Nine fingers. Then slowly he looked at Lemuel. Yes, he said somewhat dubiously, I think I understand what you’re saying. Kind of?

Good, said Lemuel, and appeared relieved.

That relieved Jack, though he knew he didn’t understand anything of what he had just heard. It didn’t sound wrong. It just didn’t make any sense.

Good, Lemuel repeated. Now you are as educated as I about the appearance…and just as ignorant about the substance of the matter.

***

Lemuel resumed his walk and Jack, after a moment’s hesitation, caught up to him. They walked together in silence.

After a while Lemuel picked up his narration. Aeons after the universe was created the Greeks came to believe that the gods were jealous gods; egotistical gods who needed others to witness their feats of triumph and praise them. They were only partially correct. The Elohim were and are jealous Gods who desire total devotion. But God, to be God, has no needs. Wants, yes. Needs, no, he shook his head.

Therefore, as the appointed time approached, the Young Man, alone and unwitnessed, lifted his right arm and stretched out his hand, palm upwards. His index finger pointed into a nonexistent distance, and with a voice that sounded like a single, immaculate note played upon a perfect trumpet he uttered a single word. ‘Be,’ he commanded, creating first an eleven dimensional space extending to infinity in all directions and, virtually instantaneously afterwards, at the tip of his finger, an eleven dimensional singularity.

This is too much, thought Jack, again motioning for a time-out. Wait a moment, please, Lemuel. Just a moment.

Lemuel paused, despairing that he would ever complete this story. Why did I ever take this newcomer’s suggestion? he thought. What now, young man? he sighed.

Now don’t be mad, but just who exactly are you? First, I thought you were a nut. A nut, uh, that’s…

A lunatic, interposed Lemuel without rancor.

See, said Jack. That’s what I mean. How do you know English? When I thought you were a nut, and I thought we were in Ireland, I never gave it a second thought. Of course you’d speak English. Then it turns out I’m dead and gone to wherever. And it seems as if you’re, you’re…I don’t know what, but not some simple Jew who, uh, from whenever. Then this angel…

Raphael, said Lemuel.

…appears and you say he’s in charge, but he treats you as if you’re his boss. Then you seem to be some Greek, but you talk about Greeks as if you’re something else. And now here I am with a robed prophet who’s one minute talking heaven and the next throwing around scientific terms like ‘space-time’ and multidimensional ‘singularities’ that I’d never heard of until a few years ago.

Jack fell silent, peering at the old man as if to see what he was made of. Then he probed, Just who the hell are you?

Lemuel looked at Jack and sighed. I am not very important, he said. "It never crossed my mind to talk about myself, when there are so many wonders to tell you of. But I see that it must be. Well then, so be it.

"As I said earlier, I am Lemuel, the son of Jorai.

My father was a Jew, a Samaritan, who dwelt northwest of Jerusalem. He wasn’t very wealthy, being just a poor shepherd, but he was rich in that which matters.

Jack looked confused

He had a beautiful wife and five children, Lemuel smiled. When I was born, somewhere around 10 A.D. since you’re so interested, I never have figured it out exactly…it just wasn’t important. But when I was born, I made six. I would have been a simple shepherd too, except that in my youth, when I was fifteen, I became unclean and left home.

Unclean? questioned Jack.

Unclean, repeated Lemuel. I contracted leprosy. To a Jew of that time, lepers were unclean. You see leprosy is a symbol which to them meant uncleanness, sinfulness. Lepers were shunned. They were left to themselves to beg and do as best they could.

That’s uncivilized, muttered Jack.

"In any event, for five or six years I wandered around Judea, begging and living on what charity I could get from people who only wanted me to be as far from them as possible. The only ones who would let me near them were other lepers. And we were all alike. Miserable and angry and full of self-pity. We weren’t even real friends to each other, though we shared the same fate. Each of us thought we were the most wronged.

"‘Why, oh Lord,’ we would cry to God and beat our breasts, ‘have you cursed us. What have we done to deserve this punishment. What sins of our fathers must we atone for? Where is your justice, Lord? Where is your forgiveness?’

Then, Lemuel smiled, "one day we heard about a man who cured the blind and healed the crippled. Several of us decided to