The Island of Heavenly Daze (28 page)

The whole earth
, thought Gavriel as he flew back to his post on the planet. Even the little town of Heavenly Daze.

Chapter Nineteen

T
he first pale hint of sunrise had touched the eastern sky when Gavriel materialized outside the Heavenly Daze Community Church. Not a soul stirred in the parking lot, but a light burned in the sanctuary, and as Gavriel opened the front door he heard a soft hiss of exasperation.

Winslow Wickam stood in the center aisle next to a small table draped in trailing wires. A machine—Gavriel wasn't sure what type it was—sat upon the table, while a circular object lay on the floor. Little white squares lay scattered over the floor.

Gavriel advanced through the lobby with his usual soundless tread, then remembered that he was clothed in human flesh. Better to be noisy, then, and not arouse undue attention.

His next footstep echoed in the nearly-empty building, and Winslow's head jerked upward.

“May I help you?” Gavriel asked, folding his hands before him.

Winslow blushed and wiped his hands on his trousers. “Seems to me that I should be the one to ask you that.” He peered behind Gavriel for a moment, then looked at him in confusion. “A mite early to church, aren't you? Services don't begin until ten.”

“I saw your light.”

“Oh,” Winslow said, but the look of confusion remained. “The ferry doesn't run this early—did you stay last night at the B&B?”

Gavriel gave the bewildered minister his most reassuring smile. “I had other transportation. I was out for an early morning walk and was warmed by the sight of your church. I hope you don't mind.”

“Not at all.” The somber line of the pastor's mouth relaxed. “As a matter of fact, I could use some help. If you know anything about slide projectors—'' “A slide projector,” Gavriel said, looking down at the machine. So that's what it was. And those little squares that looked like windows must be slides.

He picked one up, held it to the overhead light, and smiled. “What a doll,” he said, turning to Winslow. “You must be very proud.”

The pastor scowled, his brows knitting together. “What's that?” He took the slide and held it to the light, then relaxed. “Oh—that's my son, at Christmas. And that's part of my problem. I had all these in the reel, but I dropped the thing when I was carrying everything over here in the dark. My family shots have somehow gotten mixed up with the Holy Land pictures—”

“The squares,” Gavriel said, picking one up, “they go into the circle? Like this?” Bending, he picked up the reel and slid one of the slides into the slotted compartment.

Instantly, the pastor's face lit up. “That's perfect! And they're all numbered, you see—I went through my sermon last night and marked each paragraph of my lesson with a number. All I have to do is put them in the reel in the proper order, and then I can just click this remote''—he picked up a small control connected to the projector by a wire,—“and the slides will advance automatically.”

“Ingenious,” Gavriel said, picking up another square. “Yes, I see. This is number two, and it's a shot of a model of ancient Jerusalem.” He lowered the picture and looked at the pastor. “I've been there. It's lovely.”

One of Winslow's brows shot up in surprise. “Are you, by chance, a fellow scholar?”

Gavriel pasted on an expression of nonchalance. “I've studied many things, yes. But today I am here to help you. How may I be of service?”

Winslow Wickam seemed to melt in relief. “Oh, my friend, you don't know how it pleases me to hear you say you'll help. This idea didn't come to me until late last night, and then I had to sort through my slides, then evaluate them with the text, then assign one to each point of Habakkuk's second complaint, then I had to bring all this stuff over here, then I fell and—well, you see what a mess I've made.”

Gavriel smiled in honest sympathy. “Did you sleep?”

“Not a moment.” Winslow shrugged. “But that's not important now. I will give this sermon, then I'll go home and take a nap. The important thing is that I give my church people something they'll never forget.”

“Leave it to me, then.” Gavriel reached out and placed his hand on the pastor's shoulder. “You go home, Reverend, and get ready. Take a hot shower and get yourself some coffee. I'll clean up this mess and organize these slides. You won't have to worry about a thing.”

A lopsided grin tugged at the preacher's mouth. “I shouldn't leave you with my work. After all, you're a visitor here.”

Gavriel placed his hand on Winslow's shoulder, allowing the peace of God to flow from his body into the pastor's mortal frame. “You have more important things to do than fuss with a stubborn machine. Go on, Pastor, and let me take care of this. I'll see you shortly.”

Winslow drew a deep breath. “All right, then.” He turned to go, then looked back, one blue eye glinting over his shoulder. “You're not a figment of my imagination, are you? I feel like I'm walking through a dream.”

“The hot shower and coffee will take care of that,” Gavriel said, kneeling to pick up the slides scattered on the floor. “Go on home, friend, and leave me to this work. It's my pleasure to serve you.”

The pastor turned and left, apparently all too happy to let Gavriel do his work.

Which was exactly how it should be.

Refreshed and reinvigorated, Winslow climbed the steps to the platform and joined in an enthusiastic chorus of “He Is Able to Deliver Thee.” Beatrice Coughlin pounded out the melody with more verve than usual, and Micah's voice had never seemed clearer. 'Twas a grand morning, and one his congregation would not soon forget.

He'd had another brainstorm while in the shower. How could he effectively show slides to an early morning crowd with sunlight streaming through the windows? After finishing his shower, shaving, and dressing, he had quickly described his problem to Edith, who came up with a solution. Last summer the church committee had built a puppet stage of PVC pipe to entertain tourist children with puppet shows. Lengths of black curtains covered the stage, she reminded him, and those black drapes were stored in a box in the church basement. With some heavy-duty duct tape and a little effort, they could cover the windows with the dark drapes. People might think the sanctuary looked a little odd when they first entered, but the arrangement would make sense the moment Winslow fired up the slide projector and called for lights out.

Now, as he sang the hymn, he saw that Edith had been right. Olympia de Cuvier was frowning like a schoolmarm, and her pointed glances at the windows left no doubt as to what had caused her displeasure. Cleta Lansdown had stopped singing altogether and was craning her neck to stare at the slide projector in the middle of the aisle. But Georgie Graham was fairly dancing in anticipation, and the Klackenbushes were whispering to each other, probably wondering what the pastor had up his sleeve.

When Micah began the third verse, Winslow nodded to his accomplice in adventure, the stranger who had introduced himself as “Gabe” when Winslow returned to the church. The man had been a godsend, arriving at just the right time and with the perfect attitude.

Obeying Winslow's signal, Gabe stepped into the tiny storage room behind the piano and returned a moment later with the screen. While Micah sang on and the congregation gaped, he set the rickety old contraption to the left of the communion table, then pulled up the large white screen and hooked it into position.

“Our God is able to de-liv-er thee!” Micah finished the hymn and lifted his hand, signaling the congregation that it was time for offertory prayer.

As Micah prayed, calling upon the blessing of God for himself and the congregation, Winslow slipped down from the platform, his notes and Bible in hand. He felt like a one-man percussion section—his heart pounded, his temples throbbed, and his breathing came in quick gasps. He would be fine in a moment—the excitement of trying something new had brought on the jitters.

He kept his head lowered as he moved down the aisle toward the slide projector, but little Georgie Graham's wide eyes and gaping mouth drew his attention. He lifted a brow, about to silently reprove Georgie for peeking in prayer, then realized, in that moment at least, he was as guilty as the boy.

“And for today, and for our church, we give you thanks, Father,” Micah prayed. “We come to you in the precious and holy name of the Son, Jesus. Amen.”

The congregation lifted its collective head at the conclusion of Micah's prayer, then, as one, they turned to Winslow, who stood in the center of the aisle. He greeted them with the most confident smile he could muster, then opened his Bible.

“If you will turn to Habukkuk, today we will address his second complaint. As you will recall from the sermon last week, Habakkuk thought God was wrong to destroy his nation for its wickedness when other nations were far more wicked. God replied that he had a purpose in the terrorizing conquests of the Chaldean armies.”

Winslow turned to check on Floyd Lansdown—the man's eyes were wide behind the thick glasses. Good. Perhaps there would be no snoring in the sermon.

“Today,” Winslow continued, “we shall see that though Habukkuk accepted God's explanation, he still sought further illumination. God will assure the prophet that the Chaldeans would, in their turn, be destroyed and punished for their wickedness. Ultimately, God's people would fill the earth.”

In a moment of dramatic silence, Winslow lifted his arm. “May I have the lights off, please?”

At this prearranged signal, Gabe flicked the switch in the vestibule. Winslow saw newfound respect in the eyes that turned toward him in the semidarkness.

“You will see Habakkuk's city in this slide,” he said, pressing the forward button. Instantly, a slide featuring the glorious horizon of Jerusalem filled the screen, eliciting a chorus of drawn-out “ohs” from the congregation. “Of course, this is a photo of modern Jerusalem, but the colors of the landscape are the same. Imagine, if you will, the terrorizing armies of the Chaldeans, also known as the Babylonians, descending upon the frightened people of Israel in Jerusalem.”

He pressed the button again, and a photo of modern Babylon appeared on the silvery screen. “Today Babylon is not much more than a ghost town,” he said, enjoying the rapt attention of his people. “But in its day, the armies of Babylon incited terror in every heart. In this next slide, you will see an artist's depiction of what one of those fierce warriors looked like.”

Stepping away from the machine for a moment, he tapped Babette Graham's shoulder. “Given the fact that Georgie has been having nightmares,” he said, lowering his voice, “you might want to cover his eyes for this next shot.”

Nodding like a frightened rabbit, Babette reached for her son and clapped her hand over his eyes. Ignoring Georgie's yowl of displeasure, Winslow turned so that he faced the pews, then pressed the button. The wheel of the projector shifted, the light flickered, and the congregation gasped at the image on the screen behind him.

Winslow resisted the urge to lift a brow in satisfaction. “Notice,” he said, stepping forward in a deliberate tread, “the weapon the warrior wields. Notice the ferocious expression on the Babylonian's face and the tattered soldier's uniform— obviously, this warrior has engaged in many a skirmish with the enemy.”

“Um, Pastor—'' Gabe, who stood in the doorway leading to the vestibule, waved his hand for Winslow's attention. Distracted by the gesture, Winslow frowned and looked away. What was the man thinking? Just because he'd been a great help did not give him the right to interrupt a sermon.

A smattering of giggles cut through the sudden silence, and Winslow wheeled to the right to find the source of the sound. Babette Graham was still clinging to her squirming son, but her shoulders were heaving in silent laughter. Her husband, Charles, was snickering, his hand over his mouth.

Turning to the left, Winslow saw Olympia de Cuvier and Annie Cuvier bent in the pew, making only a token effort to conceal their mirth.

Slowly, Winslow turned in search of his wife. Edith sat on the second pew as usual, but she had slipped down in the seat until only the brim of her hat showed above the back of the pew. When he stepped closer, he saw that both hands had come up to cover her face.

The sounds of mirth increased—a smattering of giggles here, a chuckle there, then a wave of laughter rolled across the sanctuary and crashed in the center aisle. As Winslow drowned in the noise, he turned and found himself staring at a picture of Edith wearing little more than her red nightie, a Santa Claus hat, and a surprised expression.

“You gotta love those foreign warriors,” Floyd Lansdown called from across the sanctuary. “Lookee there! She's ready to attack the enemy with a spatula!”

Winslow stared, speechless, as his thumb spasmodically pressed the remote's buttons. The projector shuddered and moved, but as soon as the slide advanced to the map of Babylonia the reel shifted and moved backward, displaying Edith in all her glory again . . . and again . . .