During his flight to the City, the Angels whispered again. A dead brother bears the word. This contact surprised Updike. The Angels had never been so direct with him before. Past messages arrived-sometimes garbled-usually forming one or two words or short phrases: heal, fortitude, patience, speak the word-little more. He was quite pleased with this new communication. Nothing was left to interpretation. He had lots of time to think about it. With connections, transfers and delays the trip to the City took over twenty hours.
After the big twin-prop DC-10000 landed, he moved quickly through customs, his notoriety smoothing the way for him. When he traveled he often met living or dead people who felt they owed him a debt-he had freed a wife, a brother, a friend. Liberating the dead had caused many problems, but it had also mended many fences. The truth was, the dead generally accepted their lot. They had to. In order to enjoy any meaningful afterlife: death and the dead status of the body had to be embraced.
Otherwise, a person came apart, and the mind with it. For this reason, Updike compared the dead to Lepers-individuals whose existence depended upon a stark realization of one’s disease. Death, like leprosy, was never going to go away. Updike was sure that the dead kept to themselves for this reason. Too much association with the living, made the dead forget.
A limousine was waiting for him. He gathered his luggage at the carousel, and waited by the front right fender as a tall man of Arabian origin loaded the baggage into the trunk. Updike paced a few yards along the loading area watching people come and go. They retained the pre-Change expressions of travelers and Updike felt a genuine affection for them. Humans were so adaptable. He knew they were unable to accept their own defeat despite all the signs. He had to admire that foolish optimism. And he understood why the Lord called them “favorite.” The preacher felt anxious, wondering whether they could adapt to the change he was going to bring.
A man approached. He was a mess and quite dead, it was obvious from his horrific injuries. His appearance left no doubt that the movement from life to death had been recent and violent. He wore a black suit over a long lean frame. His arms were angled awkwardly out to the side like a tightrope walker’s. The front of his shirt and priest’s collar were torn and stained a dark crimson. Updike’s stomach churned as he studied the extent of the wounds.
Bone protruded from holes in the shirt just above the sternum, and flesh around the punctures splayed outward like the petals of some hellish flower. A coppery odor hung in the air and it was everything the preacher could do to keep from stepping away from the man’s sour aura. But empathy softened Updike’s dismay at last and he allowed his feelings to touch the sorrow of this dead man-it was terrible.
The limousine driver walked threateningly toward the dead stranger. “Go on! Get!”
The stranger did not yield at the big man’s approach. Updike needed no more evidence to the fellow’s recent demise, for the dead, once adjusted to their new existence were a fidgety and nervous lot-especially if the there was a threat of violence.
“Wait driver!” Updike interjected remembering the Angelic message. “This brother is here for me.” He moved past the driver toward the walking corpse, steadying himself against the instinctive repulsion he felt.
“My poor brother. How terrible has been this change for you!” Updike spread his arms to accept the corpse’s horrific embrace. He looked into the sad, wise face as he approached-at the gray skin and yellowed eyes. And there was a tug of recognition. Updike recognized something of the living man remaining in the lifeless gaze. A great knowledge lurked there, like the promise of food in the husk of a seed.
“My way is long, brother.” The dead man’s voice was thin and reedy.
“The road is long.” Updike admired the man’s spirit. He was speaking to one of his own-a shepherd.
“I have heard the word of the Lord. And with the word was a command that the righteous should hear.” Again, Updike felt great sympathy for the man. He could hear the deep current of passion that throbbed behind the sad face of death.
“ Hallelujah!” Updike squeezed the hard dead shoulders. “Speak this command to me and I shall bear the burden come what may, even in death.” The flesh beneath his fingers was plastic, but pliant-it stayed the way his hands kneaded it.
“I heard the Lord’s voice just moments after my…” he said and paused, for a second of acceptance or emotion, “translation.” The dead man’s eyes were bright and rheumy. Blinking mechanically, he continued, “I knew not what the message was upon my learning of it, but as I look upon you, the words crowd my tongue, and so I shall speak it.” With that, a power entered the dead man’s voice-an echo of life, and he said:
“Corrupt men have gone out from among you and enticed the inhabitants of their city, saying, ‘let us go and serve other gods,’ gods whom you have not known, then you shall inquire, search out, and ask diligently. And if it is indeed true and certain that such an abomination was committed among you, you shall surely strike the inhabitants of that city with the edge of the sword-utterly destroying it, all that is in it and its livestock, with the edge of the sword. And you shall gather all its plunder into the middle of the street, and completely burn with fire the city and all its plunder, for the Lord your God; and it shall be a heap forever. It shall not be built again. So none of the accursed things shall remain in your hand, that the Lord may turn from the fierceness of His anger and show you mercy, have compassion on you and multiply you, just as He swore to your fathers. Do what is right in the eyes of your Lord.”
Updike knew the words, Deuteronomy 13:13-17. He had pondered their power in the past. So fierce was the God of Moses’ time-so decisive. So exacting in His worship. The words were spoken long ago when the time of Holy War was upon them-and to hear them spoken again when the final war foretold in the Bible approached. The preacher had both feared and relished the day when the bugles would sound.
“My brother!” Updike drew the dead man close. “Just as it has been foretold. We shall muster a holy army unknown in all our history.”
“The flesh is corrupt,” the dead man said. Updike was uncertain if he was speaking of the flesh in the human context, or if he meant his own so he addressed both.
“We shall cleanse the flesh when we liberate the soul!” Updike held the dead man at arm’s length. “But first my brother, we must prepare you for the mission that lies ahead, for all of His fine ministers must be duly anointed and cleansed. You have been translated my brother, and now we must help you shed the unclean burdens of your former life.” Updike led the dead man toward the waiting limousine. The driver seemed nonplussed, hesitating a moment before opening the door.
“Make way!” proclaimed Updike. “You are in the company of God’s messenger.”
“But sir!” The driver seemed embarrassed. “I’ll have to pay for-damages.” His dark eyes roved over the dead man’s spattered attire.
“I understand,” Updike hesitated. He turned to the dead man. “Your name, brother?”
The dead man’s face hung slack a moment, his eyes glazed over looking inward. He seemed reluctant to pronounce the name, as though his state would be made real with its utterance. Finally, he said, “Able Stoneworthy.”
Updike’s mouth dropped open. “Able Stoneworthy?” Almost unrecognizable under the stains and marks of death, but it was him. “ The Tower Builder?” He pushed his teeth together. “Of course.” The former recognition came home to him. They had met in the past, on several occasions, but briefly. In those days Stoneworthy’s passions were focused on the Tower, and the future it represented. He had been dismissive of Updike then, but not unkind. The preacher knew that his preoccupation with the past ran contrary to the minister’s.
“Yes,” the dead man mumbled-his strength was on the wane. “I am Stoneworthy.”
“Then,” Updike shouted, slipped an arm around the dead man’s shoulders and gestured to the driver with the other. “Get a car blanket-get something, so that this fine Tower Builder can travel in a manner that befits his stature.”
The driver opened the trunk of the limousine, moved Updike’s luggage, and brought out a gray quilted blanket. He spread this over the leather seat, and then held the door aside as his passengers entered-concern a cloud on his dark features. Updike set the dead man into a comfortable position, gently placing his limbs before him.
“Rebirth Foundation,” the Captain ordered, as he rubbed Stoneworthy’s cold hand. The airport dropped quickly behind them as the limousine sped down a ramp and onto the Skyway. The City’s jagged skyline loomed over them. Central to it, Archangel Tower pointed at Heaven like a gleaming sword.
“You must be proud of your work, Reverend.” Updike watched the dead man.
“We have sinned,” Stoneworthy said in reply.
“Humanity has strayed from the Word of God. Like an errant child, humanity must not be spared the rod.” The preacher allowed himself that admission of punishment. His dead companion said nothing. “You spoke to the Lord your God?” he asked, finally.
“ He spoke to me. He gave me the message.” There was a mild injection of emotion in the dead man’s voice, but it was not pride. “Because you are chosen.”
“ Hallelujah! We must remind the world of the Lord’s wrath.” Updike watched the Skyway pass. “For there is sin in the City, and for the world to come under the watchful eye of our Lord again, it must change utterly. We must clean the works of man!”
The dead man nodded. Updike watched him for signs of passion or feeling, but his wounded humanity had slipped below the surface. Putting himself in the dead Reverend’s shoes, Updike knew that there was a great test going on in the minister. Men of God did not lightly speak of war.
“We shall triumph!” he reassured Stoneworthy. “We shall put the sinners to the sword. And the hilt of our sword shall be a holy cross. Hallelujah! But first, we must offer the Lord’s pity. Only when that is refused shall all our actions be righteous.”
The dead man nodded-relieved, his eyes blinking slowly, as though he were falling asleep. His dead face wrinkled in a grimace. Pain or acceptance worked molten inside his skull.
“My poor brother.” Updike stroked the dead man’s stained cheek. “Poor brother.”