The Incubus, Succubus and Son of Perdition Box Set: The Len du Randt Bundle (75 page)

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Jerusalem:
Four Months Later
(Eight Months since the attacks)

The Temple was breathtaking.
Malcolm didn’t think that he would, in his lifetime at least, see the Temple
rebuilt. It was a miracle; an act of HaShem. Hundreds of Orthodox Jews were
gathered in the outer courts of the Temple, and Rabbi Morris raised his hands
to calm the crowd.

‘We have waited over two thousand years for this
moment,’ he said to the audible agreement of the crowd. ‘And now, we can at
last make sacrifices to HaShem.’

The crowd held their breaths in anticipation as Rabbi
Morris was escorted to the entrance to the Holy of Holies. Another Rabbi tied a
rope around his ankle. Entering the Holy of Holies could prove fatal if the
Rabbi was not considered worthy in the presence of God. The other Rabbis would
then use the rope to pull out the corpse.

Rabbi Morris nodded at the two Rabbis, and carrying the
sacrificial lamb, stepped into the Holy of Holies. They held onto the rope,
letting it slowly slip through their hands as Rabbi Morris inched his way
forward. The curtain closed behind him, and instantly the rope pulled taut, then
went limp. The two Rabbis looked at one another, fear and confusion engraved on
their faces.

The lamb ran out from the curtains, but the rope
remained still. Reluctantly, they tugged at the rope, and then pulled it with
all their strength. Eventually a foot emerged from the curtain, then a leg, and
finally the rest of the limp body. Rabbi Morris was dead.

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Timothy’s emotions raged. He had
been raised with certain religious ‘truths’ that were now disintegrating before
his very eyes. Each Bible passage that he read dealt a crumbling blow to the
foundation of his Jewish faith. Although he had decided to follow Jesus; he
still had years of conditioning and tradition that he couldn’t just let go of.

‘Show me, Jesus,’ he said. ‘Show me what you want me to
do.’ He opened his Bible at a random place. ‘Ecclesiastes,’ he whispered the
name of the book that it fell open on. He started reading at the third chapter:

‘There is a time for
everything,

and a season for every
activity under Heaven:

a time to be born and a
time to die,

a time to plant and a
time to uproot,

a time to kill and a time
to heal,

a time to tear down and a
time to build,

a time to weep and a time
to laugh,

a time to mourn and a
time to dance,

a time to scatter stones
and a time to gather them,

a time to embrace and a
time to refrain,

a time to search and a
time to give up,

a time to keep and a time
to throw away,

a time to tear and a time
to mend,

a time to be silent and a
time to speak,

a time to love and a time
to hate,

a time for war and a time
for peace.’

He reread the last verse, ‘a time
for war and a time for peace.’

For some unknown reason, that specific verse gripped
him. He wasn’t sure why, but for now it was enough.

‘Just guide me, Lord. I will follow.’

He felt peace, but knew that soon, he would have to
confront his father with the news that he had chosen to follow Jesus, the Son
of HaShem. He knew that it would mean trouble, especially if his father found
out that it was because of the things that the two prophets had said.

A time for war. Your own will turn against you soon.

‘Just guide me, Jesus,’ he said, ‘and I
will
follow.’

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‘A
Rabbi was killed in Jerusalem today as he was about to perform the sacrificial
ceremony in the recently rebuilt Jewish Temple,’ the GMN newsreader said. ‘The
ceremony was a ritual performed by the Israelites for the forgiveness of their
sins. It was at the reinstitution of this ceremony that Rabbi James Morris
died.’

‘Sucker,’ Trevor snickered as he muted the television.

René laughed, and lightly touched Trevor’s arm.

There was an awkward moment of silence, but Trevor
decided to break it. ‘Have you been having any bad dreams lately?’ he asked
her.

She looked at him quizzically. ‘Bad dreams? Not really,
no.’

‘I have.’

‘Really? About what?’

‘About my parents...’ he swallowed, and then lowered
his eyes. René didn’t want to put pressure on him, so just waited. Eventually
he continued, ‘The dream is always the same. It starts where I’m a young boy in
a war stricken country. There are shooting, bullets, and screaming everywhere.
Chaos. I try to run, but I can’t. My legs won’t move.’

René took his hands in hers, but remained silent.

‘There’s a voice that calls me. My father’s voice. He
calls me over, but I can’t move.’ He swallowed hard. The lump didn’t budge. He
stared at René’s soft hands. It was comforting in a strange way. ‘He comes back
for me, and gets killed. Both my parents and Norman come back as zombie-like
creatures, blaming me for their deaths.’

‘But it’s only a dream,’ René reassured him.

Trevor’s eyes stung. He rubbed the back of his hands
over them and then took a deep breath. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘it’s not.’

‘Not?’

He shook his head. ‘They were missionaries. Norman and
I were young; very young, and we went with them to Istanbul. It was during a
sermon one morning that the police showed up, waving their guns around and
yelling something at my father.’

René swallowed hard. She wanted to say something
comforting, but couldn’t find the words.

‘There was a heated exchange of words, and then all
Hell broke loose.’

‘Oh dear...’ René said, squeezing his hands softly.

‘I got separated from my parents and called out to
them. They came back for me. It was my fault. They came back for me and were
gunned down right in front of me.’ He shook once, then twice, and then
collapsed into her arms. ‘It was my fault...’

A tear rolled down René’s cheek and she held him as he
clutched her tightly. She wanted to say something, but didn’t. She just held
him. He needed it. She needed it. Both cried.

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‘Father, I think we need to talk.’

Malcolm didn’t have time for small talk. Rabbi Morris
was dead, and the Jews were in uproar. Another Rabbi would have to be found for
the ceremony as soon as possible. ‘Not now, Timothy,’ he said, then hesitated
as he saw the disappointment in his son’s eyes. ‘Maybe later?’

Timothy shrugged his shoulders and then turned to
leave. But something held him in his place, and he couldn’t move.
A time for
war.
‘No father,’ he said and turned back to face Malcolm. ‘We need to
talk,
now
.’

Malcolm looked up and their eyes met. There was a sense
of determination and authority in his son’s voice that he had never heard
before. Rebellion? Perhaps. ‘All right,’ he said finally. ‘But make it quick.’

Timothy didn’t want to rush the discussion. He wanted
his father’s undivided attention. ‘It’s okay, dad,’ he said, ‘we can talk some
other time.’ He turned to leave.

Malcolm sensed that Timothy wanted to say something
important. ‘No,’ he insisted. ‘We will talk about it
now,
as you said.’

‘No,’ Timothy said, wondering if his father was being
sarcastic. ‘Just drop it.’

Malcolm’s calm exploded into a fit of rage. He grabbed
Timothy by the shoulders and shook him violently. ‘Tell me, boy!’ he yelled,
unable to control his emotions. ‘What did you want to say?’

Timothy tried to yank away. ‘No! Let me—’

He didn’t complete his sentence. A book flew from his
hand and struck Malcolm on his shin. The man released his son from his ironclad
grip and kneeled down to investigate the book. The title on the cover stared at
him blankly, almost tauntingly. He picked up the Bible and stood up, towering
his full length over his son as a form of intimidation.

‘What’s this?’ His voice thundered throughout the
house.

Timothy tried to defend himself, but couldn’t find any
words. He just remained quiet as his father flipped through the book.

‘Did you read this?’ Malcolm asked, hoping that his son
was merely enquiring about the book, and that he had picked it up somewhere in
a dumpster.

‘From cover to cover,’ Timothy replied calmly. ‘Four
times.’

‘Four times,’ Malcolm repeated the words softly as he
weighed the seriousness of his son’s words; his prior engagements not even a
mere thought now. ‘And? What did you think about it?’

Timothy hesitated. He knew that the answer would make
the world’s difference. He could back down now and keep his father at bay, or
he could stand up for what he believed in, even at the risk of his own life. He
took a deep breath.
Now or never
. The son’s eyes locked onto the
father’s. ‘I believe it to be truth, father,’ Timothy said with a slight
tremble in his voice. ‘I believe
everything
in it.’

Malcolm reacted out of instinct more than anything
else. He would never in his rational mind do anything to harm his children, but
the tone of Timothy’s voice snapped something inside him. He struck the boy
across the face with the Bible as hard as he could, sending Timothy flying
through the air for a short distance before coming to a crashing halt against a
bookshelf.

Malcolm realized that he had overstepped his boundaries
as a father, but it was too late. The damage had been done, and now he had to
go the distance. There was no use in backing up now.

‘How dare you defy me?’ he thundered; anger and
betrayal mingled in his voice. ‘How dare you go against everything that I have
taught you?’

Timothy wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of
his hand. He looked at the crimson smudge in disbelief. ‘I didn’t...’ he spat
some blood out of his mouth. ‘I didn’t defy you, father,’ he said as he
struggled to get back on his feet. ‘I merely made an educated decision for
myself...’ he waited until he was able to stand up completely before
continuing. ‘...instead of blindly following something because someone else
told me to.’

Malcolm couldn’t control himself. He rushed over to
Timothy and slammed the Bible into his chest, sending the boy sprawling
backward and falling to the ground. He closed the gap and kicked Timothy in the
side, and then pulled his leg back for another kick to the ribs. Had Timothy
not managed to catch his foot in time, he might have succeeded in doing serious
damage to the boy, but he did, and for a moment time stood still. Their eyes
met briefly, and then Timothy twisted the foot as hard as he could.
A time for
war, and a time for peace
. Malcolm crashed into the floor next to Timothy,
and the boy instantly sprang to his feet. He grabbed the Bible and moved back
to what he felt was a safe distance.

Malcolm was in pain. He lay there breathing heavily,
slowly moving his foot to check if his ankle had not maybe been broken. It was
only badly sprained. He turned his head and looked at Timothy. ‘You...’ he
mustered, ‘you will pay for this.’

‘Pay for this?’ Timothy asked, his voice barely softer
than a frantic scream. ‘
How?
Are you going to have me killed?
I’m
your son for crying out loud!
’

‘Not anymore, you’re not,’ Malcolm said, still
breathing heavily. His foot still didn’t allow him to stand up. ‘You have ten
minutes to get your things and leave.’

‘Fine,’ Timothy said. They had serious fallouts like
this before. He knew that his father only needed time to cool off. This had
been the first time that he actually dared fight back, and adrenaline rushed
through his body. ‘I’ll book myself into a hotel.’

‘No,’ Malcolm said sternly. ‘You will leave Jerusalem.’

The seriousness of Malcolm’s voice struck Timothy as if
it were a physical blow. ‘But where...where will I go?’

‘I don’t care,’ Malcolm said, ‘but you will leave
Jerusalem, and you will
never
come back.’

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Trevor stood on a street corner,
waiting for the light to turn green so that he could walk. He looked around him
and noticed that the streets appeared deserted; almost abandoned.

‘Excuse me,’ he said to a man standing in front of him.
‘Do you have the time?’

‘Twelve thirty,’ came the answer.

‘Thanks.’

The light turned green and Trevor started walking. A
black van skid to a halt in front of him and the side door slid open.