The Rising: Antichrist Is Born (13 page)

“What do you think of that, ma’am?”

“Well… I… ah, that’s beautiful. Beautiful writing and a cogent treatise. And you presented it well. I’m not sure I believe it, but—”

“Here we are in Romania,” the young man said, and she could hear the closing-of-the-sale tone in his voice. “Wouldn’t you like to follow the Romans road to salvation? Saying this simple prayer will not save you; only faith in Jesus Christ will do that. But this is a way you can tell God you realize where you stand and what you need from Him: ‘God, I know that I’m a sinner and deserve punishment. But I believe Jesus Christ took that punishment and that through faith in Him I can be forgiven. I trust in You for salvation. Thank You and amen!’”

The three looked at her expectantly. Marilena wondered what they would think or do or say if she told them she believed God had tried to tell her who He was and also told her to flee the devil. And what if they knew she had prayed to God’s archenemy?

  “Would you like to receive Christ, ma’am?” Ian said.

  “No, I wouldn’t. Not tonight.”

  “You want to think about it?”

  “At least.”

  “That’s understandable, but let me caution you. I don’t mean to pressure you or scare you, but none of us ever really knows how much time we have. You look like a fairly healthy person, but you don’t know when you might be run over by a car, do you?”

“Well, I certainly hope not tonight.”

“We hope not either,” the young woman said. “We will pray for you that you will do the right thing.”

To their credit, the kids did not pressure Marilena, and as soon as they were gone she felt both relief and turmoil. She had long wondered if this idea of being born in sin and saved by the death of Jesus was really as simple as it seemed. These kids sure thought so.

The question wasn’t whether God existed. Marilena believed He did now more than ever. Had she been born in sin? And if so, was it her fault? Was she a sinner? God seemed jealous, vengeful. He had declared to her who He was and told her to flee the devil. And yet the one God considered His enemy was offering her a child.

  Had Marilena been a dog, she would have growled and snarled upon meeting Reiche Planchette. Viviana introduced him to the group with such eagerness that Marilena wished she could display some enthusiasm. But she had to admit there was something oily about the man. He did not just practice maintaining eye contact; he also seemed to use it as a battering ram. She finally had to look away.

  Mr. Planchette was not what she expected, yet in his presence she found it difficult to remember what that was. Had she assumed he would have cloven hooves, horns, and a pitchfork? Or that he would wear all black and have slicked-back hair?

In reality he was pleasant-enough looking with thinning light brown hair and a prominent nose. He smiled easily and looked anything but sinister. Some in the group greeted him like an old, trusted friend. They eagerly waited for him to take the floor, and once he had it, Marilena found him mesmerizing.

He was as direct as Viviana had predicted, referring to Lucifer as his leader and lord and the object of his love and worship as naturally as Marilena had heard Christian ministers on television refer to Christ and God. She had thought them delusional, taking the classic Scriptures literally, but until fourteen weeks ago, she had put even less stock in people who believed in the dark side.

It seemed Planchette’s goal was to dissuade anyone from maintaining misconceptions about the one he called “the opposite god.”

He worked the room, pacing, smiling, speaking conversationally. The bottom line, he said, was that “you may have tried praying to the God of the Bible. What has it ever gotten you? An answer here and there? A feeling? Mostly haven’t you felt judged, watched, shamed, your conscience attacked? My lord offers power and action— measurable, tangible, and helpful.”

Perhaps Planchette was a memory expert. Or maybe he had conspired with Ms. Ivinisova. Regardless, his performance at the end of the evening was nothing short of miraculous. As he closed his eyes and prayed, he mentioned every person in the room by name and gave them a personal word of prophecy.

“Titus, your marriage will be repaired.

“Atanasia, your lameness will be healed.

“Donna, your depression will lift.”

People moaned and cried out and sighed and wept.

Marilena couldn’t deny she was caught up in it, her pulse skyrocketing as she waited her turn. She was also praying to the God of the Bible, challenging Him, badgering Him. “Here’s Your chance,” she said silently. “Show Yourself. Do something. Compete.”

All she sensed in her spirit was the echo of God’s original message: “Resist the devil and he will flee from you.”

But I don’t want to flee! I want what I was promised!

“Resist the devil and he will flee from you.”

“Resist the devil and he will flee from you.”

Marilena would not resist. How could a spirit who promised her a child be evil? She might regret it, she told herself, but God had an opportunity here to show Himself head-to-head against the one of whom He seemed so jealous. It was He who considered her a sinner in need of salvation.

  The other side offered to fulfill her dream and longing, apparently with no strings attached. Well, there was the matter of allegiance. But might that not grow from sheer gratitude when she carried her own child, delivered him, held him?

  “Marilena,” Reiche Planchette said, “you shall receive the desire of your heart.”

She needed no more convincing.

Viviana took Marilena and Mr. Planchette to the bistro where she and Marilena first chatted. Planchette insisted Marilena call him Reiche, which she could not bring herself to do. He also continued to stare so pervasively that, had it not been totally against her nature, she would have called him on it.

Marilena did not, however, sit and take it when Planchette attempted to sway her with an academic argument in which he was nowhere near as adept as she. She had asked about his view of the moral nature of Lucifer.

“The name,” he said, assuming a professorial tone, “comes from the Latin lux and ferre, which is one reason he is often referred to as the Morning Star. Lux meaning ‘daylight’ and ferre meaning ‘star.’”

  “Pardon me, sir,” Marilena said, “but you don’t want to presume to teach me linguistics. Lux indeed means ‘light,’ but the closest you could get to star from ferre is some play on the words show or exhibit. The fact is that the primary meaning of ferre is closer to ‘iron hard,’ and, referring to a person or being, ‘someone without feeling, unyielding, even cruel.’”

  That made Mr. Planchette sit back. “Excellent,” he said evenly. “Perhaps you are on to a side of our god that manifests itself when someone who has been offered a gift in return for a modicum of gratitude would rather thumb her nose at it.”

“Surely you’re not suggesting that in my commitment to not give a false impression—”

“I believe he knows your heart, madam.”

“I doubt that. But if he does, then he knows that I merely want to remain true to myself. Doesn’t it follow that if I faked some expression of loyalty—?”

“He knows when someone has been courting two suitors.”

That stopped her. Was her life not her own? Could she never again do anything in secret?

  Planchette let a smile play at the corners of his mouth. “I am not all-knowing,” he said. “I go only by what is communicated to me.”

“I am a scholar,” Marilena said, trying not to sound defensive. “I study. I compare. I research.”

“You play both ends against the middle, and you could live to regret that.”

“Is your god, then, as jealous as he claims is his adversary?”

Planchette pressed his lips together, then finally broke his gaze and studied the ceiling. “Lucifer is merely just. The fact is, he is willing to concede what he wishes for from you, as long as he does not have to concede the child.”

“Speak plainly.”

The stare was back. “You are but a vessel, Mrs. Carpathia. Whether you ever swear allegiance to the granter of your desires is worth a pittance compared to your agreement to allow your son to be raised in his service. Regardless of where you land in your flitting about from kingdom to kingdom, you agree that Nicolae—and you know why he should bear that name—”

“Because it means ‘victory of the people’ and was thus prophesied,” Marilena said. “In truth, I like it. It has a majestic ring. Nicolae Carpathia.”

“Withhold your allegiance at your peril, if you must, but agree that Nicolae will be raised in the service of our lord.”

Ray Steele’s dad had a small den where he liked to retire at the end of the day. While Ray was doing homework and his mother was reading or watching her favorite programs, Mr. Steele would secrete himself in his cozy hideaway, where his golfing and fishing knickknacks covered the walls.

Ray’s view of his father’s sanctuary had been skewed by the nature of his own visits there. He was not allowed in the den when his father wasn’t home, and when he was invited in, it never seemed to be for good news. Ray had never been punished there, but he had certainly endured his share of lectures and dressing-downs. Whenever he had lost significant privileges, been reprimanded, been grounded, it had happened as he sat across the desk from his imposing father.

  And so it was that when his dad asked Ray at dinner to meet him in the den when his homework was done, Ray felt a rumbling in his gut. “What’s wrong? What’d I do now?”

  His father leveled his eyes at the boy. “If I wanted to discuss it at the table, I wouldn’t invite you to the den, would I?”

“It doesn’t necessarily have to be bad news, Rayford,” his mother said.

Yeah, like she had a clue.

Ray found it difficult to concentrate on his homework, wanting to get this over with, whatever it was. He racked his brain for the memory of any offense. Often he was surprised to discover what a teacher or a coach found offensive. He was a smart and talented kid, and he didn’t intend to brag or put anyone else down. Sometimes he knew more than his teachers, but when he corrected them, he didn’t mean to insult.

Had Ray done that lately? He couldn’t recall. Had he said anything disparaging to friends that would have gotten back to their parents and thus to his parents? He shook his head. He considered marching down to the den to find out, but he was on pace for good grades this semester and didn’t want to shortchange his homework—especially math and science.

An hour later, after putting the finishing touches on his math calculations, Ray found his dad reading a magazine at his desk. He waited as his dad held up a hand and finished reading, then set the periodical aside.

“Have a seat, Ray.”

Great. It’s going to be all formal

His dad leaned forward and folded his hands. “Ray, I gotta tell ya, I’ve seen a lot of progress in you the last several months.”

  “You have?”

  “Absolutely. Proud of you. And I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do. I’ll make a deal with you. You keep working hard at your studies and keep getting good grades—”

“Good? Almost straight A’s, Dad.”

“Well, I’d say that’s good. And when you’re thirteen—”

“That’s a lot of years away, Dad.”

“I know. Now hear me out. When you’re thirteen I’ll give you a part-time job at the shop.”

“But what about sports and—?”

“We’ll make it work. I’ll start you just cleaning up, sweeping and handling the trash, that kind of stuff. It won’t keep you from playing sports, and it’ll give you more money.”

“In place of my allowance?”

“In addition to your allowance.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. I’ve watched you, Ray. You don’t waste your money. You set goals, and you achieve them. I could use more employees like you.”

“That’s it?”

“Almost. Get this. When, between your allowance and your part-time pay, you start to get close to having enough money to cover half of the flying lessons, I’ll pay the other half.”

“Dad, are you serious?”

“You bet. But remember, you’ve got to uphold your end of the bargain.”

“Are you kidding? I’ll do anything.”

“Then it’s a deal.”

Ray stood and started to bolt, eager to tell his mother— who, he realized, probably already knew. But he had to tell someone.

“One more thing, Ray,” his father said, pointing at the chair. Ray sat again. “Once you’ve proved yourself with the dirty-work type chores around the tool and die, I want to start teaching you to run some of the machines.”

“Cool.”

“That pays better, and you need to learn the business.”

“The business? Why?”

“I have a dream, Ray. Nothing I’d like better than to leave the business to you. You take it over. Steele and Son. Make me proud. Make yourself a good life.”

Ray slumped. How could he go from so high to so low so fast? “Dad, what if I don’t want to take over the business? You know I want to fly.”

“I wish I could fly, own my own plane, jet myself to my suppliers and customers. You could do that, have yourself a fun life.”

“Are you going to make me do it?”

“What do you mean, Ray?”

“Do I have to promise to take over the business to keep this deal, the work and the flying lessons?”

His dad sighed and shook his head. “I won’t force you, Son, but it’s sure what I want for you.”

“But what if it’s not what I want?”

“How do you know what you want? You’re not even ten yet! Why don’t you just keep an open mind, see the business, learn it, then decide?”

“Because if I decide I still want to be a pilot, or if I grow to seven feet and have a shot at the
NBA
, you’ll be all insulted.”

His father scowled. “Maybe I will. I’m just offering you an opportunity, Ray. Don’t toss it away.”

“I’ll keep an open mind if you will, Dad.”

“How’s that?”

“If I like the business and want to do it, I’ll tell you. But if I want to leave and go to college and the military and fly for a living, you have to be okay with that too.”

“And what, I’m going to sell my business to someone who’ll probably just resell it for profit to someone who won’t know it and love it like I do? I’ve spent my whole adult life building this thing that puts clothes on your back and—”